FNaF: Age of the Bear
by Souffle'd
Summary: Fredbear's Family Diner. Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria. Fazbear's Fright. He saw it all come and go - a whole dynasty turned to ash. From his conception in the early 1980s to his haunting legacy thirty years after the closure of the Pizzeria, he saw it all. What turned a children's icon into a terrifying force of nature? What really happened at Freddy Fazbear's pizzeria?
1. Foreword

**Author's Foreword**

**So, this is the part of the FanFiction where I try to pitch the story to you. You may know me from my Dark Souls or Doctor Who fics, but this story is going to be nothing like any of them. I recently became a huge fan of FNaF, and so I wanted to pay it a tribute in the best way I know how. I decided that, since FNaF has such a convoluted, yet interested and time-consuming story, that I would do my own, complete take on the rise and fall and rise and then fall again of the Fazbear Dynasty.**

**Starting from its very first conception as Fredbear's Family Diner, through to its final closure and conversion into a horror attraction, the story will encompass the events of the first three games in the series as well as those alluded to in their stories. I have to confess that I'm no lore expert, and most of what I'll be writing about comes from the FNaF wiki. However, I will do my best to be faithful to the story, whilst giving you all my own unique take. I see how popular this fandom is everywhere I go, so I promise I will try my hardest to honour it.**

**I sincerely hope you enjoy reading!**

**Frozen Soufflé**

**P.S. I'm looking for a better story title than the one I have currently, so if anyone has any suggestions, please either send a PM or leave it in a review. Thanks!**


	2. Prologue (1980)

**Prologue (1980)**

"What kind of a name is Fred for a bear?"

James Hill, the CEO of the new, as-of-yet-untitled diner, leant back in his chair, unimpressed by the efforts of his brand design team. Bemused, he took a long slurp of coffee from his porcelain mug. The lead pitcher, now standing in awkward silence following the rejection of his proposal, tried to get back on track by consulting his many cue cards.

"We want kids to like the bear, right?" he stammered. "To feel like they can trust in him... Be his friend."

"Yes..." James replied, feeling the early hours of the morning and his sleepless night pressing hard upon his scalp. "But does the name 'Fred' scream 'friend' to you? Kids love wordplay - they love _alliteration_. Mickey Mouse... Donald Duck... Fred the Bear? I'm not feeling it, you know?"

The pitcher coughed and adjusted his yellow-pinstriped tie. "According to our surveys, Fred is this year's fourth most popular baby name..."

James rested his head on his hands. "What about Boris? Boris Bear?"

The brand design team looked about themselves, none of them daring to speak out against their boss.

James continued to spitball. "Ben? Brandon? Bob? Come on! What am I paying you for? Feedback!"

The pitcher swallowed, checked his notes again, and nervously replied. "The market research likes Fred."

James scowled. "Alright. Show me the concept art."

The woman to the left of the original pitcher stood up straight as she realised it was now her turn to speak. Turning to the sketch board next to her, she flipped the cover and revealed the first image: A black bear riding a unicycle.

James stroked his chin, before abruptly stating "Too comedic. Do we want them to laugh at him, or with him? Next!"

The next sketch was a brown, besuited bear with a golden monocle and a suitcase.

James took one look at the gently grizzly and pressed his fingers to his temples with annoyance.

"Boring! We don't want kids being reminded of their father! We want excitement - childlike enthusiasm. Next!"

Sighing, the woman flipped the page again, this time revealing a graphite impression of a guitar-playing bear on a stool, complete with bowl for loose change. It was the spitting image of a hobo.

"What the hell is that supposed to be?" James asked, chuckling loudly. "A music-playing bear? How obnoxious can you possibly be? Good god, next!"

The final sketch was simply a bear wearing a party hat with red and gold trims. James finished his coffee and slammed it down on its coaster, demonstrating his growing impatience.

"That's fine," he conceded. "Simple, undemanding, does the job. Good. Okay, shall we talk titles?"

"We were thinking Fred the Bear's Steakhouse," the original pitcher said.

"Can we lose the 'the'?" James asked. "It sounds hokey. Oh, and I think 'steakhouse' misdescribes it. It needs to be more general, less emphasising. How about Fredbear's Diner?"

The brand team all nodded their heads in approval, before James snapped his fingers and smashed his hand upon the table with enthusiasm.

"Fredbear's Family Diner!" he cried. "It's perfect. It describes it perfectly!"

Nobody in the pitching team seemed to have any quarrels. The woman operating the sketch board turned over a new page, writing the title in block capitals in its centre.

"Well done, everyone!" James announced, smiling at his employees as they breathed sighs of relief at having reached the conclusion of the pitch.

_"Fredbear's Family Diner,"_ James thought to himself gleefully. _"I'm going to be the next Walt Disney!"_

As the brand team packed up their notes, James approached the sketch board, turning back the page to the image of Fredbear, adorned with a party hat.

"Ah, Fred," he smiled, tapping the bear's hat with his finger. "You're going to make me a lot of money."

Fred stared back at James, his wide, joyous eyes paralleled by his goofy grin.

"A lot of money."


	3. Grissini (1981)

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, fav'd or followed so far. I can't promise for any consistent release schedule but I'm aiming for a new chapter every Monday. If you're confused about the chapter title, it means 'Breadstick.' In the spirit of Hannibal (a fantastic TV show) I have decided to name chapters after Italian cuisine (because its a pizzeria, you see?). In this case, it refers to a light appetiser, which fits thematically with the content of the chapter.**

**I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One: Grissini (1981)**

Milford Barnes squinted at the shape opposite himself in the mirror. He saw a tall man with short, cropped black hair, a small, wiry beard and glistening blue eyes.

What he didn't see, however, was motivation.

A voice blasted at him from the living room.

"...and brush your hair!" his mother called, concluding her outburst of criticism which Milford had, by now, lost any attention to.

"Nobody is going to see my hair under the bear head!" he shot back, before somewhat unconsciously brushing a few loose strands off of his freckled forehead.

"Lose the attitude!" his mother retorted. "You're working with children. They don't want to hear moaning and groaning from you!"

"Well, neither do you!" Milford growled, tensing his back. "So can you please be quiet!"

He heard his mother tut - practically felt the air ripple as she shook her head voraciously.

"You'll be late!" she scolded.

"I already am!" Milford yelled, backing out of the door and slamming it shut behind him.

In his haste, he had forgotten to pick up his wallet or keys, leading him to have to stubbornly tap upon the window. His mother opened the door and thrust out her hand, pink dressing gown sleeve flapping in the morning breeze. Milford snatched his forgotten possessions and hurried off, muting the sound of his mother as she shot criticism after him.

The bus into town was running late. As usual. When it finally rounded the corner, black clouds of exhaust fume blowing out of the cracks in its bodywork, Milford was over ten minutes behind schedule.

Fredbear's Family Diner was located in the centre of town, about five stops from Milford's home. The area in which it was built was pretty rough, which was contradictory to its child-friendly ambitions. When the bus pulled in across the street, Milford caught his first look at a pristine new building in the centre of a graffiti-layered suburb.

The eye of the storm.

Fredbear himself adorned the imposing signpost that towered next to the restaurant. It was the first time that Milford caught sight of the cartoony character that he would be portraying, six nights a week, for the foreseeable future.

He didn't immediately strike Milford as being someone of significance. Aside from his multicoloured, cone-shape party hat, there was little to distinguish him from any other cartoon bear. Although his eyes were considerably larger and whiter than a typical teddy bear, his textures were identical. Rugged, brown fur with cuddly, posable arms and flat, clawless paws.

Fredbear's spherical, saucer-like eyes followed Milford as he crossed the carpark towards the entrance. A large, red banner hung over the doorway, gold text reading 'GRAND OPENING.'

The manager who had conducted his interview was already waiting for him in the lobby. Whereas Milford was wearing casual clothes, James was dressed in a full suit, complete with a blue-checkered tie. With his thinning hair and long, spindly body he looked remarkably like an ostrich - an image which Milford had to suppress for fear of giggling.

"Mr. Barnes, I presume?" James asked, smiling thinly. "You're late."

Milford scratched at his head as he noticed all of his co-workers around him staring bemusedly. "Sorry, sir. The bus was late."

James clasped his hands together and tried to grin, only half-successfully. "Can't be helped I suppose. Myself and the employees were just introducing themselves, but since you've just arrived, we'd better start over."

An invisible sigh swept around the room as James turned to the nearest employee and gestured to him.

"I'm Joe," the first man said, waving wearily. "I scrub the dishes."

Joe was reasonably young - Milford estimated that he was probably around his own age, in the early 20s. He had a kind face, but one that seemed drained and aged, almost as though his whole life had already been swept out from underneath him.

The man next to him, a round, Asian man by the name of Hai, was the next to greet Milford.

"Hello," he said. "My name is Hai, and I'm the cook."

Milford nodded to him, pondering the amusement he would've had in the event that Hai had greeted him with 'Hi', rather than 'Hello.' He supposed that was probably the reason Hai had avoided it.

The next employee was a middle-aged woman, who introduced herself as Wendy. She had fiery-red hair and a tad bit too much lipstick, making her look somewhat flushed. She seemed friendly enough, as somebody who worked as a waitress was sure to be.

When Milford looked at the next employee, he was immediately shocked to see a young woman, no older than himself. To say she was pretty was a disservice - she was BEAUTIFUL. Far too good-looking to be working a greasy, thankless job like this.

"I'm Jenny," she smiled, extending a hand with pink nailpaint towards Milford. "You can call me Jen, though. I'm also a waitress here."

"Hey Jen," Milford replied, putting on his best grin as he shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

He felt incredibly self-conscious as he greeted Jen, and for a moment, it was as though he were in a broadway musical where all eyes were on him. At such close proximity to her, Milford couldn't help but fret as to whether he had in-fact remembered to brush his teeth that morning, or if a spot might have cropped up on his nose since his rendezvous with the mirror earlier that morning.

James, who rolled his eyes slightly at Milford's bumbled response, turned to the last employee. "This is Andrew," he explained. "He's our janitor."

Milford looked at Andrew, who was gazed at the floor tiles. His posture struck Milford as peculiar, in that his back was hunched and his hands were tucked in close to his chest, somewhat like those of a T-Rex. He had thin, brown hair and a little wispy goatee Andrew, retaining a lack of eye contact, grunted something close to a greeting, to which Milford smiled in what he hoped was a friendly manner.

"Well, the last thing that remains is to introduce you to the final member of our little team," James said, walking across the diner to a tucked-away closet, opening the door, and disappearing inside.

He reappeared a few moments later with a severed head, tossing it into Milford's hands.

"Fredbear," James explained, returning to the group bearing the torso of the bear's costume. "I'm sure you'll all get along famously."

Milford turned the head over in his hands, admiring the hollowed eye sockets and goofy smiling mouth which he would soon be filling.

"Right," James cried. "Enough fucking about. We open in five hours, and we need this place operational. Hop to, people!"

(-AOTB-)

At 2:00pm, Fredbear's Family Diner opened its doors for the first time.

After that, not much happened.

Milford sat on a stool in full costume, idly kicking his legs for about half an hour, before James came out of his office looking flustered.

"What, no customers!?" he exclaimed, looking about frantically. "Barnes!"

Milford snapped out of his daze, turning to look at James. "Yes, sir?"

"Get out onto the street and bring in some customers!"

Milford groaned inwardly as he arose from his stool and the comfort that it offered, and made his way to the doors.

The car park was just as deserted as it had been earlier that day. The streets were fairly empty, and those who did patrol up and down the labyrinths of pavement did not look like the type of person who would want to eat with a teddy bear.

Still, Milford wasn't being paid for being successful - rather, it was by the hour. So he didn't mind the distraction. The hot air in the diner had made him swelter inside his costume, like some kind of a fluffy iron maiden.

Finding a street corner with a bench, Milford sat down and removed his bear head, soaking in the fresh air.

How had it come to this? Minimum wage for playing a stuffed animal?

At one point, Milford had been dead-set on a career in electrical engineering. He had studied often, but found himself succumbing to procrastination, like playing video games or watching the TV. It was a shame that motivation failed him at a certain point. He had always had a lot of fun building cars with his dad in his uncle's workshop over the summer holidays. Once, they had even built a little robot that danced about the desktop. It was the logistics that he failed to comprehend.

Because it was boring.

Noticing a woman with a pram approaching to his right, Milford quickly put the Fredbear head back on, stood up, and did his routine, just as he had practised.

"Hey there, friend!" he exclaimed. "How would you like to come and eat some pizza with me?

The woman scowled at him.

"Piss off."

Milford's theatrical posing ceased immediately, his arms dropping to their sides as the woman hurriedly took her young child away.

"Tough break, huh?"

Milford swung around to see Jenny standing behind him, chewing on a wad of gum and smiling.

"Yeah," Milford laughed. "I suppose it is."

"Well, for the record, I think you look incredibly cute in the bear suit," Jenny giggled.

Milford was glad for the bear head as his whole face blushed fiercely at her comment.

"Are you local?" she asked.

"Yeah, I live about half an hour away," Milford explained.

"I drove in," Jenny replied. "An hour or so. I live up near the coast, you see."

"Oh, right," Milford said, feeling somewhat awkward as he stood around in the bear suit.

"You ever been a mascot before?"

"Never," Milford chuckled. "Why, is there some kind of initiation?"

Jenny laughed. "Yeah, we have to pin you down and squirt mustard down the back of your neck."

Upon reflection, Milford realised that he must've been pretty quiet at this point, as Jenny suddenly put an arm on his shoulder and fell about laughing.

"We don't really," she exclaimed. "I'm new to this kind of thing too! I used to be a club singer, till I got tonsillitis. Now, I can't quite reach the same notes."

"Ouch," Milford replied. "That's rough."

"Yeah," Jenny nodded, still smiling rosily in spite of the turn of conversation. "I'd better go back now. See ya later!"

"See ya," Milford waved, turning away and accidentally thumping a man with a briefcase as he passed.

"Sorry, mate," he called out to the man, who stormed off cussing in a hushed breath.

Around forty minutes later, James came out looking for him, and ordered him to return to the proximity of the restaurant.

The rest of Milford's shift passed uneventfully. He ended up reclining on one of the brick walls around the car park until a teenage yob on a bicycle threw a beer bottle at his head. After that, he sat near the doormat of the diner until his watch bleeped at 5:00pm, signalling the end of his shift.

As he went to hang up his costume in the storeroom, James stood in the middle of the dining hall, ranting about their lack of business.

"It's the bear!" he proclaimed. "I knew Fred was a stupid name!"

Milford bade his goodbyes to his fellow employees - who were similarly inactive - and made his way towards the bus stop as the clouds started to disappear beneath a velvet black sky.

It was around 6:00pm when the bus finally pulled into Milford's stop. The driver offered no apology for his half-hour absence, only showing mild interest as Milford flashed his return ticket and took a seat near the back.

He was about halfway home when it struck him.

"Shit, my keys!" he realised. "I left them in my locker!"

Since there were no more buses that evening, Milford had to get out and run back to Fredbear's. He assumed it would be shut, but there would likely be some kind of night guard to let him in.

The moon hung bright in the sky as Milford arrived back at the diner. Breathless and disgruntled, he rapped on the window of the front door, only to realise that it was in fact still open.

Quickly pushing inside, he headed straight towards the storeroom, ducking past the tables and chairs strewn about in the starlight-illuminated room.

Opening the door, Milford immediately saw that he was not alone in the room. He saw a man bent over, examining something on the floor. In his surprise, the man turned, revealing himself to be Andrew.

"Mifford?" he grunted in a muffled voice.

Milford didn't reply. He was too busy focusing on what Milford had been working on. He felt nothing in his body, no life in his legs or feet. No impulse to run.

All he could do was stare in silence.

At the pentagram on the floor.

That was drawn in blood.

**To Be Continued...**


	4. Pancetta (1981)

**Chapter Two: Pancetta (1981)**

Andrew, stuttering like the mechanical coughing of an oily printing press, slowly started to advance on Milford. His arms, previously concealed against his body, were not outstretched and rigid with the signs of panic.

Milford could not move his gaze from the bloodied symbol upon the floor, but he was starting to move back, even though his legs felt as though they were shot through with liquid nitrogen. His mouth, tasting dryer than sand, struggled to form a coherent expression. A long, protracted scream lay dormant at the back of his throat, waiting for the provocation that would set it free.

"Mifford!" Andrew cried. "Don't... It's not what you thenk!"

Milford, suddenly crashing into the back wall as he continued to backpedal, finally let the scream go free. For about three seconds the wail was audible to the world, but Andrew quickly shut him up, darting over and cupping his hand over Milford's mouth.

"Mifford, please," Andrew interjected. "Don't do thayt."

Milford struggled against Andrew's gag, but the deformed man seemed to make no attempt to harm in any way. He waited patiently for Milford to calm, his beady black eyes following the transition of emotion in Milford's eyes as it raged and then settled like a wave crashing on to a promenade.

A few seconds passed, and then Andrew spoke in a hushed whisper. "I'm gonna take my hand off now, can you promise you won't scream?"

Milford was unsure if he could adhere by such an assurance, but nodded nonetheless.

Andrew removed his hand, and Milford stumbled away, leaning against the back wall with a healthy proximity to the door. He shot another look at the bloody symbol upon the ground, feeling a indomitable nausea sweeping over him.

"What the fuck is going on here?" he spluttered.

Andrew held up his palm so Milford could see. "It's jus rats, Mifford. See?"

Milford's eyes focused on the limp rodent on Andrew's palm and clenched his stomach in a desperate bid to avoid vomiting.

"Why? Why would you do that, Andrew?" he exclaimed.

Andrew bit his lip. "It's not harming enyone, Mifford. It's sposed to bring good luck to the diner. We need som good luck around here. I only wanted to help!"

Milford was struggling to process what Andrew was saying to him, but he couldn't deny that, covering his mouth aside, Andrew did not appear to have any intentions of violence towards him. The few times he was able to bring himself to make eye contact, he saw innocent-confusion and naivety. His whole face seemed sagged, like a child who knew they were about to be told off by a parent.

Eventually, Milford was able to regain his voice.

"Alright, listen Andrew. I believe that you meant no harm, but you need to clear this away now. This will freak out the other guys if they come in and see it tomorrow morning. You understand?"

Andrew nodded quickly. "Oh yes, Mifford. Clean it up. Right on."

Milford nodded, handing him a mop from the side of the room. As he did so he saw the storage locker and recalled his reason for returning to the diner.

"I have to leave now," he told Andrew, who was swiping away at the bloodied floor like a man possessed.

Andrew looked up, panicked. "You not going to tell the police on me?"

Milford raised his palms defensively. "No, Andrew. I promise I won't. But you shouldn't do this again. Yeah?"

Andrew nodded, the storm clouds dispersing around him. "Yeah. Right on."

Milford retrieved his belongings and left the storeroom. As soon as he had gotten through the front entrance and outside, he started to run, not stopping for breath until he reached the corner of his street, where he looked back to check for pursuing devil worshippers.

His mother was full of questions when he arrived, a full hour late, but he closed off to her droning voice, heading straight up to his room and crashing into his bed.

He did not sleep well.

(-AOTB-)

Milford's eyes slowly opened to the chittering of his alarm as streaks of sunlight from his bedroom window broke through the glass, advancing upon him like sharpened knives.

He rolled out of bed, and started to do his morning routine of press-ups and sit-ups. As images of bloodied pentagrams came back to him in his sleepy stupor, he found the energy seeping from his body, as though it were sapped by the same symbol that had been sapping the life of the rat that previous night.

Finishing his routine, he lay flat on his back, listening to the excitable birdsong outside of his window. He could imagine himself joining them in some alternate universe to his own.

"It's little wonder that they sing," he thought. "If you could just fly away from all of your troubles, why wouldn't you be incessantly happy?"

Eventually, his ears tuned in to the jingle of the Jeremy Kyle Show, which was blasting from the TV in the living room below. He knew he would have to get up and moving soon, or else his mother would trudge up and start yelling.

The last thing he needed now.

He showered and dressed quickly, grabbing a bagel from the kitchen to eat as he rode the bus to work.

Today the bus came a good two minutes earlier than schedule, so Milford decided to get off at an earlier stop, for no reason other than to postpone the inevitable moment when he would have to walk through the doors of the diner and see Andrew again.

Of course, Milford had given thought to quitting his job right there and then. However, it was not the favourable option, even in spite of the events of the previous day. With such few qualifications, Milford was lucky to have been able to get a job at all, and he'd already been searching for months.

Besides, as unlikely as it seemed, there could've been a devil worshipper at the tyre shop or the Chinese takeaway as well.

Better the devil you know, he supposed.

At least Fredbear's paid better. Or, at least, for now. Unless the business took off, Milford didn't see his position as a long-term prospect.

James was outside in the car park when Milford arrived, the cigarette in his mouth lighting the grey morning with an orange wick. When he looked up and saw Milford he opened his mouth to speak, causing the cigarette to fall from his lips and be extinguished in a burst of sparks in the puddle of water below.

"Shit," James growled, reaching into his pocket for another.

Milford avoided his glare, ducking away through the front doors as though he were a rabbit bounding away from a ravenous fox.

Opening the door to the back room, Milford half-expected to see the bloodied pentagram emblazoned on the floorboards. But the ground was clear, with no evidence of the demonic symbol having ever existed.

Milford might have written it off as a dream at that point, were it not for the presence of Andrew, lurking in the corner of the room. He was leaning on a broom, gazing sidelong at Milford with expectant eyes.

Nobody spoke, and Milford was starting to feel uncomfortable.

"I haven't told anyone," he assured him.

Andrew blinked, keeping his gaze focused. "I know. Thanks."

Milford reached for the Fredbear costume, but froze when he saw that the head, perched on a shelf above, was facing his direction, the bear's bulbous eyes staring right at him.

He had left the head on the floor.

"Andrew," Milford began, gaze fixed on the bear's ghoulish smile. "Did you put this up here?"

Andrew frowned, as though I had asked something ridiculous. "No. No, I dint."

"Well, then apparently the head climbed all the way up here by itself."

"Dun be silly," Andrew smiled. "A head can't move wiv'out a body!"

Milford tensed involuntarily as he turned his attention to the bear's torso. It was as he had left it, propped up against the wall...

But... had its arms moved?

Milford shrugged it off. Someone from the night shift had moved it, it was clear. He didn't need this job to get any weirder.

By the time he had put on the costume it was time to open. Not that he'd needed to have rushed at all, for the first few hours were just as uneventful as the previous day. When he saw Jenny at lunch, she seemed to have a lot to say about it.

"It's this neighbourhood," she explained. "I heard that a kid got knocked off a bike only a month ago and left to die on the curb."

"Not to mention all the robberies," Joe added. "Every shop round here needs to have a nightwatchman just to keep the property safe."

"And even then, you get cases of employees stealing from work."

"Yeah," Joe replied, nodding and grimacing. "This ain't a nice place for a family restaurant."

James seemed to be losing a clump of hair every time Milford saw him. His face was a permanent blank slate, but his arched back and rigid arms betrayed his frustration.

So when the bell above the front door rang at around 2.30pm, nobody in the diner was expecting it.

"Hello?" a deep voice called. "Anyone here? The sign says open."

James practically catapulted out of his office door to greet the customer, shaking his hand and taking his baseball cap for safekeeping. Milford, suited up except for the head, peeked through the storeroom window.

The customer was a large, round caucasian man with blonde hair and a blue Mickey Mouse T-Shirt. He wore sandals on his feet that clacked on the wooden floor as he walked, which would've been strange in Summertime, but since it was early Spring, it struck Milford as genuinely bizarre.

Sensing it was time for him to earn his minimum wage, Milford put on the Fredbear head and came out to greet him.

The very second the man caught sight of Milford a broad grin extended over his face.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"Hi, I'm Fredbear," Milford cried. "Would you like to eat with me?"

The man chuckled. "Would I ever? Wow. You're incredible! I'm Eddie, by the way. But you can call me Ed."

James returned with a menu and Eddie turned to him ecstatically. "What an amazing mascot you have."

James snorted. "Oh, yes. Just a thing we roll out for the younger ones... You know how it is."

"I love the design. He's a marvel!" Eddie continued, sprightly and without a hint of sarcasm. "Are you going to dance for me too?"

James' eyebrows elevated. "Dance?"

"Yeah! And sing? You're missing a real trick with that. Chuck E. Cheeses have a whole band!"

"Well, would you like to take a seat, Eddie?"

Jenny came whizzing out with a complimentary glass of water which signalled the start of the meal. Throughout Eddie's time at Fredbear's, Milford stood near the table in his costume, keeping him entertained with novelty tricks and japes. He would've tried to leave but Eddie seemed to have little interest in anything but Fredbear. Every time he attempted to move, he'd launch into a new wave of compliments or relate another anecdote about stuffed animals who couldn't compare to the bear. It was like listening to an excitable child on their birthday, only in this case, it was an overweight thirty-year old man.

Eventually he left, singing the praises of Fredbear's Family Diner. James seemed pretty pleased with himself, and the way he eyed the costume Milford was wearing gave the impression of a man deep in thought.

Soon enough it was time to close up for tje day. Milford bade Jenny, Joe and Hai goodnight before he popped into the backroom to see Andrew.

The janitor was busy attending to the floor and he didn't seem to notice Milford as he opened his locker and took out his keys. However, as he walked towards the door Andrew called out to him.

"It worked, you see?"

Milford looked back. "What worked?"

Andrew smiled toothily. "The gud luck! It's began Mifford!"

Milford gave his best smile, trying not to betray his deep unsettlement, before saying goodnight and closing the door behind him.


	5. Bruschetta (1981)

**Chapter Three: Bruschetta (1981)**

The rest of Milford's initial week at Fredbear's went relatively smoothly.

On the Wednesday a family with two kids came into the restaraunt, much to James' joy. Milford had paraded in front of the youngsters, but had left swiftly when one of them started to cry, his eyes streaming with fearful tears.

Milford could hardly blame the poor kid. There was just something about that bear's face that gave him shivers when he changed in and out of the costume. As cliched as it sounded, it really did feel as though it was watching his every move with its big, glassy eyes.

On Thursday some kind of extracurricular pre-school club came into the diner, which offered a lucrative business opportunity for all concerned. Milford mostly stayed out of their way, occasionally turning up with a balloon or napkin whenever such accessories were requested.

Finally, the end of the week rolled around. Milford came into Fredbear's on Friday morning feeling vitalised by his knowledge of being able to sleep in the next morning. Even Jenny could not top his enthusiasm as he arrived in the backroom, a good four minutes ahead of schedule, to dress for the day.

Fredbear was starting to smell quite a bit. James suggested that Milford take the costume to the cleaners at the end of every week to avoid any kind of repulsion in the customers.

Milford was just about to place the bear's head aloft his own when he noticed Andrew sitting on a crate in the corner, watching him closely. He offered the janitor a polite nod - a gesture that was not returned.

"It must be mighty cosy in one of them suits," Andrew remarked, completely out of the blue.

Milford looked at him, surprised by his comment. "Can't really complain. A bit stuffy, though."

Andrew nodded succinctly with a blank expression - he was strangely akin to a computer interpreting data. "S'like one of them Russian dolls. Layers inside layers."

Milford frowned bemusedly. "Yeah, that's a costume for you."

"You got you, then the costume... then Freddy."

"Fredbear," Milford corrected, somewhat confused by Andrew's remark. "Well, actually, I like Freddy better. I don't know who came up with the name."

"That would be me."

Milford glanced up quickly as he realized his boss had entered the room. Andrew leapt off of his perch, nearly knocking over the bucket of soapy water at his feet.

James looked at least ten years younger now that the stress of his first week was starting to wane. His lips were curled in what appeared to be a concerted effort to smile.

"I have something to show you all," he explained, gesturing to the dining hall.

Milford and Andrew followed him out into the room, where all of the other employees were now situated, waiting patiently in a semi-circle for James to make his announcement.

Milford sidled up next to Jenny, who glanced over at him and smiled warmly.

"It's a big day today," James boomed. "I want to introduce you to three new members of our group dynamic."

Milford looked around, expecting to see a trio of fresh faces in tidy new uniforms. Instead, his gaze fell on a collection of cardboard boxes in the centre of the room.

James approached the boxes in turn, opening them and pulling out a multicoloured item from each. Then, he turned to face his employees, showing them what he had.

In his hands were two felt animal heads. In one, a purple bunny with a Kermit the Frog -style sock puppet mouth; in the other, a yellow chicken with a luminous orange bill.

"Ladies and gents," he started, beaming. "Meet Bonnie the Bunny and Chica the Chicken!"

(-)

"So, you're turning Fredbear into a musical act?"

James smiled. "That's right. Fredbear's Ensemble. You're our frontman."

Milford turned over the Bonnie head in his hands. For reasons that he could not summarise in words, the strong purple colour of the rabbit mascot repulsed him, and its large, bulbous eyes drew all kinds of comparisons to creepy children's icons of yore.

"But I can't sing," Milford protested.

James laughed. "Who can? Don't worry, we have a recording. Just get up on stage and mouth along. We'll play the song from a stereo behind you."

"So, who's going to wear the chicken and the rabbit?" Milford asked, now eyeing 'Chica's head disdainfully.

"Joe is going to be Bonnie and Jenny will be Chica," James clarified. "And I don't want to hear any arguments. Earn your paychecks, people!"

Jenny seemed as chipper as ever but Joe took one look at the purple rabbit and shook his head profusely. "Not happening."

"I'll do it."

Andrew had appeared rather suddenly from next to Milford. James looked at him dubiously, trying to imagine the stumpy little man in the purple outfit. Eventually, he seemed to lose interest and waved his hand dismissively. "Fine."

"What do I have to do?" Jenny asked, beaming all-the-while.

"You'll be back-up vocals," James explained. "And Andrew... you're going to play the guitar. Well, not really of course. Just hit a couple of strings every once in a while."

Andrew nodded, apparently determined. "Strings. Right on."

"What is this song anyway?" Joe questioned, leaning against the wall.

"Here," James said, heaving a small stereo onto a nearby table. "Have a listen."

He hit the rewind button first, and Milford heard the chirpy frenzy of a nightmarishly-galling tune rip through the air. And then, James pressed play.

The song started with a small guitar piece, before erupting with a chorus of childlike voices, clearly sung by older women.

_"If you want some pizza, there's only one place in town!_

_If you want a burger, then there's no need to frown!_

_Come along my friend, and very soon you'll see!_

_Fredbear's Diner is the only place for me!_

_Ohhhhhhhhhhhh_

_Fredbear's Diner is the only place to be!_

_A fun and happy place, just for you and me!_

_The best place to eat, clearly you can see!_

_Fredbear's Diner - the only place for me!"_

James stopped the tape abruptly, causing the frenzied and excited sound to cut out sharply, like a vinyl being taken off.

"So, what do you think?" James asked, beaming.

Milford had no words.

The only thing he knew was that there was no way, no way in hell, that he was standing on a stage while that song played, in front of an audience.

(-)

\- Three Days Later -

"Fredbear's Diner is the only place to be!

A fun and happy place, just for you and me!

The best place to eat, clearly you can see!

Fredbear's Diner - the only place for me!"

Milford, sweating profusely underneath the stuffy bear head, turned to high-five Jenny, who was dressed from head-to-toe in the Chica outfit next to him.

The bright lights that were focusing on him were starting to make him feel very dizzy, and he was aware that his 'dancing' - representing more of a zombified trance - was starting to look tired and drained.

As the song started to quiet down into silence, Milford turned to Andrew, dressed as Bonnie, and gave him an exhausted fist bump. The curtains fell, obscuring the trio from the bright lights. Milford immediately tore Fredbear's head off, choking and panting for air.

Just as the blood had started to flow freely around his head again, the curtain suddenly rose again, revealing the now- headless Fredbear.

Milford immediately put the head back on, but not before he heard the wail of a small child somewhere in the darkened restaurant. As an awkward silence descended, Milford felt the head slip onto one side, as though Fredbear were looking sideways at the audience.

Through his suffocating embarrassment, Milford could make out a faint flurry of applause.

"Woo!" Eddie called out, munching on a slice of pizza with one hand and punching the air with the other. "You rock!"

As confetti streamers exploded near their feet, the trio took depleted bows, before exiting to the right.

As soon as Milford reached the storeroom he practically threw the head across the room. He felt nauseous, and his cheeks burned red like hot coals.

Andrew sidled up next to him, whispering. "I think that wen' pretty well!"

Milford turned to him and scowled. "Says you. You only had to hold that guitar and twirl a bit. I had the full routine!"

"You're good, Mifford!"

"No, I'm exhausted."

Jenny arrived, removing the Chica head and offering a fatigued smile. "Tough crowd, eh?"

Milford put his head in his hands. "I probably scarred that kid for life," he groaned.

"I'm sure it was fine," Jenny replied.

Just at that moment, James burst into the storeroom, angrier than anyone had ever seen him, and started to yell at Milford.

"Barnes, what the hell did you think you were doing with the Fredbear head?" he shouted. "I tell you when to get out of costume. Do you hear me?"

"The curtain was down!" Milford protested. "I thought it was over."

"Never heard of taking a bow, huh? Some performer you are."

James' last words stung Milford like a hornet, and so, in a fit of pained rage, he turned on James.

"That's exactly the point! I'm not a performer! When I went for this job I wasn't expecting to have to dance about like a monkey! Since when have fucking bears sung and pranced about like fucking monkeys?!"

James was stunned, and said nothing.

"They don't want this. The kids. You can see it. Dancing animals in costumes and hats... Nobody likes that shit anymore! Disney wrung out the last of that a long time ago."

"Barnes," James said quietly. "Calm down right now, or you are fired."

Milford pinched his lips together and sat down heavily on a nearby box.

"Now, I suggest you take a long walk, and have a think about whether dressing up like a 'fucking bear' and dancing like a 'fucking monkey' is a career that you wish to continue. You are the face of Fredbear's Diner... But you can be replaced. Understood?"

Milford nodded, feeling the vertigo of defeat setting in.

With that, James took his leave.

Milford felt a consoling hand on his shoulder.

"S'okay, Mifford," Andrew said. "I still think you were good."

(-)

The bus came late again.

Milford arrived home with a bright white crescent moon hanging in the sky, suspending by a velvety cloak of stars.

Feeling depleted, he only managed to eat a cheese sandwich for dinner, opting to head up to his bedroom as an alternative to hearing yet more criticism from his mother.

Closing the door behind him, Milford went straight to his desk and sat down.

With all of his grievances and qualms, Milford took a sheet of paper from next to his lamp. Milford started to picture James in his head. First, he envisaged the short, balding man that he was, with his face contorted by rage and body stiffened by shockwaves of paralysing anger.

Then, the image slowly started to deform, becoming wildly more demonic, before his boss' eyes started to mould and change shape into the peepers of one of the Fredbear mascots.

Milford pictured this image clearly, until it was practically lifelike in front of his eyes.

Then, he started to draw.


	6. Risotto (1982)

**Sorry that its later than usual, but I had a busy weekend and a busier week. Well, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Four: Risotto (1982)**

The cake - all three layers of jam, cream and vanilla - wobbled like a jelly as it was dropped unceremoniously onto the plate. For a moment, it seemed inevitable that the great tower was about to be toppled, but then it came to a rest and the crisis was temporarily averted.

Milford, swathed in his golden bear suit, took the plate unsteadily, balancing it on the flats of his yellowish paws. He tensed as Joe stuck a bunch of candles into the doughy mess, before whipping out a gas lighter and burning them up with a wick of orange flame.

Before anything else could go wrong, Milford stumbled through the kitchen doors and into the diner, which was now appropriately darkened. Unfortunately, the light cast by the candles was so diminished that it barely illuminated any of the rooms layout. So, Milford, already unsteadied by the precarious plate and his stuffy costume, had to navigate a minefield of chair legs and crawling toddlers to reach his objective.

And when he reached that objective, it started to cry.

"Happy Birthday to you," Milford sung, which only succeeded in accelerating the tide of tears on the little boy's cheeks.

Eventually, the bawling of the child grew too much for Milford, and he lay the cake on the table and retreated quickly back to the storeroom.

"God, I hate birthdays," he groaned, taking off the golden bear head and setting it down atop a nearby box.

"Aren't the brown and gold costumes basically identical?" Joe replied amusedly.

"Yeah, but gold is much more of an eyesore."

Joe nodded, and Milford noticed the extra effort that his colleague was putting into sustaining his smile.

"You okay, man?" Milford asked.

Joe shrugged. "It's nothing. Me and the wife had a spat. We've been going through a rough patch lately."

"Oh."

Joe assumed a mischievous grin. "Never mind about me. What about Jenny? Are you gonna ask her?"

Milford blushed fiercely. "I don't feel ready yet."

"Grow a pair, man. You've been working with her for over a year now, and anyone with eyes can see you fancy her!"

Milford looked round as James stuck his head through the door, his potato-like head looking slightly more boiled than usual.

"Barnes, Roberts!" he shouted. "Get to work! Table Five are missing their cheesy fries!"

Joe gave Milford a knowing smile and his eyebrows popped up as though pushed out of a toaster.

"I'd better go, Barnes," he smiled.

"See ya Roberts," Milford replied.

As Joe left through the door, Milford started to remove his costume, preparing to change it over for the usual brown edition. As he was pulling off the pants he heard Andrew run into the room, dressed up in his purple Bonnie suit.

"The kids keep pullin' my tail!" he protested, indicating the fluffy ball on his bottom.

Milford couldn't help but laugh. "At least you don't have a hat. Usually, I'd just let them take it, but the younger ones keep putting it in their mouth!"

As Andrew took a breather atop a box, Jenny came running in, her eyes darting like pinballs about their sockets.

"Has anyone seen the chicken suit?" she asked breathlessly.

"Chica," Andrew corrected. "'Her name is Chica."

Jenny smiled wryly. "Have you seen it, Andy?"

Andrew, cradling Bonnie's head in his hands, grinned toothily. "Nu-huh."

Jenny, exasperated, looked hopefully towards Milford. "You seen it, Mil?"

Milford indicated a yellow pile in the corner, and Jenny rushed over.

"They're about to riot out there!" Jenny laughed, donning her bill.

The sound of children shrieking indicated that they were heavily anticipating the Fredbear band's next gig, due to start in a few minutes time.

Milford, pulling on the pants of his brown Fredbear costume, slipped over and landed haplessly on his back, legs kicking like an inverted tortoise.

"Help," he muttered weakly, hearing the sound of catatonic laughter from Jenny and Andrew.

Andrew rushed across the room and pulled him up, and Milford, trying to recover quickly, headed straight for the torso of his costume.

"Hurry up, Mil!" Jenny called, still sniggering.

"Bear with me a second," Milford retorted, barely even remorseful for his awful pun.

The sound of the intro started to play out across the diner, accentuated by the whizzing and cracking of confetti and streamers.

It was truly the chorus of frantic, chaotic insanity. And it greeted Milford every hour, five days a week.

Such was life at Fredbear's Family Diner.

* * *

Five O'Clock came about as it always did, and for once Milford was not pleased to see the back end of his shift. It meant that he could stall no longer.

The moment he had been bracing for had arrived.

"Jenny?" he called out, prompting the brunette to turn around with a quizzical look on her face.

"Yeah?" she replied.

Milford swallowed the pebble in his throat. "Are you doing anything right now?"

Jenny smiled. "Yeah. I'm packing away for the day."

"No, I mean... after work. Are you doing anything then?"

Jenny brushed aside the strand of hair that covered one side of her face, a whole new understanding crossing her amicable expression.

"No," she answered. "No, I'm not."

Milford let out the hurricane in his lungs. "Do you want to grab a bite to eat? There's a Mexican takeaway down the street. Their nachos are unbeatable. What do you think?"

"I think I'll go grab my poncho," Jenny giggled.

"Great," Milford mouthed, feeling anything but as the room revolved around him as though built upon a spinning top.

He looked to the side, noticing Joe huddled in the corner, giving him a covert thumbs-up.

"I'm just going to put the costume back," Milford explained, retreating slowly into the back room.

At that moment, James came out of his office, tie swinging gently. By the look on his face he looked as though he was about to storm the whole world by force.

When he got outside his visitor was already waiting patiently on the lot. By the fine quality of his grey and black-pinstriped suit, he meant some serious business.

"Hi," the man said upon seeing James. "You must be Mr. Stoke?"

"Mr. Fazwick, I presume?" James replied, thrusting out his hand for a shake.

The man ignored the handshake, slapping a small paper card onto James' palm. James turned it over and examined it, taking in the words 'Fazzes Entertainment' and Henry Fazwick, both printed in large bold text. Next to them was a logo of a white clown-like figure with purple eyes and a smile like a crescent moon.

"I wanted to talk about selling the diner," Henry explained, a charismatic smile bursting onto his face.

James frowned. "It's not for sale."

"Well, not sell exactly I suppose," Henry corrected, blinking quickly. "I want to create a brand... A franchise!"

James' hard expression fell, and like the inside of a marshmallow roasting on an open fire, he started to soften. "I'm listening."

"You- WE, have the potential to create something big here. Something world-changing. Your biggest competitor is Chuck E. Cheeses? How would you like to drive them out of business?"

James thought hard. He'd like that very much.

"All you need is a good team. People dedicated to excelling - pushing without limits. You'll have the whole of Fazzes Entertainment backing you, and you and I will be very rich men. You already have the trump card you need..."

Henry pointed to Fredbear's smiling head, immortalised atop the diner's towering sign.

"What do you say?"

James stared at Fredbear for a few seconds, before looking back at Henry and beaming.

"Shall we go for coffee?"

* * *

It was dark when Milford and Jenny came walking down the beaten path to Milford's place. Their flashlights, like yellow sabres, cut through the darkness cleanly.

"Since I started working at the diner I've been able to get my own place," Milford explained. "So there's that..."

"Dressing up as a teddy bear has advantages," Jenny laughed.

"Yeah... The power of minimum wage."

"Well, I think you make a great Fredbear anyways."

Milford reached his door and fiddled with his keys. Jenny stood back, admiring the desolation that surrounded his urban abode, from the scuffed and flickering streetlight in the corner all the way to the brown scrubs sprouting from the clumps of soil that were scattered around like lunar craters.

Eventually, the two were inside. Milford led Jenny through the mess strewn around the floor - a mass that could only indicate a bachelor pad.

"You want a drink?" Milford asked.

Jenny didn't seem to hear him. She was preoccupied in her snooping of her new surroundings, and had hit the jackpot with Milford's study, a room that apparently doubled up with his bedroom, indicated by the mattress huddled in the corner.

Milford flicked the light switch, and the room was illuminated by a creaky, discoloured bulb that hung from the ceiling.

Immediately, Jenny noticed the boards on the walls - wooden canvasses that were enveloped by an ocean of papers. Drawings, mostly, depicting all sorts of designs. On one, there was a picture of Fredbear with a modified, sleeker design that lost all of the stuffiness of the original's fluffy tomb. Another showed an altered Diner sign, shaped like a slice of pepperoni pizza.

"What's all this?" Jenny asked, her eyes scanning over the various images like a photocopier.

"It's become a bit of an obsession," Milford replied sheepishly. "Improvements to the diner... and to the costumes."

"I like this one," Jenny pointed, indicated a poster that had been pinned on dead in the middle of one of the boards.

Milford smiled. "Foxy."

The character, a brownish-red fox, was roughly the same size as Fredbear, Bonnie and Chica, but with the notable difference of having a black eyepatch over one of his peepers, as well as a rusty grey hook replacing his right hand.

"Is that a new character?" Jenny inquired.

"It was just an idea," Milford explained. "Come on, stop looking now. It's embarrassing."

"Not a chance," Jenny laughed.

"Come on."

"What? Are you afraid I'll cramp on your non-existent life."

Jenny turned to find Milford right in front of her. He smiled and said softly "I have a life outside of that Diner."

"No you don't," Jenny whispered, leaning up against Milford and kissing him gently on the lips.

Milford was caught by surprise, but he reciprocated the action, moving his hands down to Jenny's sides.

After what seemed like an eternity had ticked away, the pair broke off the embrace. They stood there, two rigid poles on the corner of a street. Then, finally, Jenny spoke.

"Can I have that drink now?"

* * *

Andrew looked at his watch.

11:23.

The world outside his apartment had turned from a grey and cloudy overcast to a liquorice veil of dark. The only light across the street came from the spasmodic red flashing of the burglar alarm by the bank.

It was time.

Andrew opened his satchel, taking out the Fredbear head that he had concealed there after Milford had left. Carefully, he placed it in the centre of the carpet, in the middle of a circle of table salt he had created to serve as its prison.

With a spark, Andrew lit the candles on either side of the circle, before sitting cross-legged in front of the stuffed head.

Time to begin.


	7. Ravioli (1983)

**Chapter Five: Ravioli (1983)**

"Look, Mifford!"

Milford gazed over the restaurant floor at Andrew, who was finding a great deal of entertainment value in the metal endoskeleton that was stood rigidly next to him. As Milford watched, the janitor stuck a hand inside the robot's steel snout, feigning an expression of pain as the animatronic fox appeared to take a bite out of his flesh.

"Be careful, Andy," Milford exclaimed, nervously eying the spring-controlled mechanism that held Foxy's jaw together.

Andrew withdrew his hand, which was thankfully still attached to his body, and beamed.

The atmosphere in the diner was jovial. After six months of renovations, it was nearly time for the grand re-opening. The new carpet, a regal red adorned with gold checkers, seemed to buzz with more than just static electricity as Milford walked across it, admiring the rebirth of his workplace.

Fazzes Entertainment had injected nearly $500'000 into the restaurants rejuvenation, and it showed. Nothing looked cheap or tacky anymore. The kitchen, once a grease-trap of filth, was now a shiny silver everywhere Milford looked, with brand-new friers and ovens glittering in the light of the energy-saving green bulbs. The wallpaper, previously flaky, was now a beautiful creamy white like a patch of fresh snow.

Even the mascot costumes looked expensive now, although Milford was assured that they remained a creation of felt and stuffing.

Watching Foxy, his own brainchild, come to life had been the most rewarding process, however. Seeing the autumnal-brown and red costume come to life was a feeling akin to bringing a son into the world, and Milford was awestruck to this day. It was if the seafaring fox had snuck right out of his papery confines to plunder Milford's world. His grey hook was gorgeously-rusty and his eyepatch told more of his story than could ever be conveyed through words. He was a mascot with personality, that was for sure. Even his endoskeleton bones were a thing of majesty and prestige, a symbol of the passion from which he had been born.

In a way, the change from humans in costume to animatronic performers saddened Milford, in spite of James' assurances that his job would remain intact. And yet, there was something magical about the idea of the diner's characters being awarded a life of their own. It made them feel less like the culminations of cynical, wealth-seeking designers and more like the conjurations of the children's hearts of which they would be touching.

Milford was more proud of his workplace than he cares to admit aloud. There was a part of him that felt like his soul had become entwined with the place, and in its lease of new life, he too was reborn.

Taking a step out into the parking lot brought him back to reality. This was still the same town with all the break-ins, muggings and graffiti.

Milford gazed back at the restaurant. His eyes were immediately drawn to the new sign that stood proud above the lot.

Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria.

Freddy himself was the only thing that hadn't really changed since the first time Milford had stepped over that threshold for the first time. The bear remained a constant presence throughout the renovations, a silent guardian that kept watch over his keep. Even now, after two years and one subtle name alteration, Freddy's face was still youthful and energetic upon the sign, his eyes - like bright white spotlights - sweeping over his territory, both welcoming and foreboding.

Milford was stunned out of his thoughts when a pair of arms came around his back, pulling him into a familiar and soft embrace.

"I suppose you must miss that old fella," Jenny whispered, her hot breath tickling the hairs on the back of Milford's neck.

"Maybe," Milford replied, turning to look from the candle that kept him warm to the hearth that soothed his bones. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you, sweetie," Jenny smiled, gently kissing Milford's cheek. "You're not so bad yourself."

"Hey!"

James' voice cut across the parking lot like the crack of a sniper rifle. "Get back to work you two love doves!"

Milford rolled his eyes, and Jenny grinned.

Some things never changed.

(-)

The time on the clock was 11.26.

Milford had been lightly asleep, slipping deeper into his nocturnal grave, but the sharp ringing brought him back out. Sighing, he reached over to his bedside table, taking the phone and lifting the receiver to his ear.

"Hello?"

Silence. Then, "Mifford!"

"Andrew?"

Milford rubbed at his eyes groggily. "What's going on?"

Andrew replied in a hushed whisper. From the shakiness of his speech, coupled with its low volume, Milford could tell that he was terrified.

"They smashed the winda, Mifford. Big bricks, threw em right through. Now they're coming inside."

Milford sat up straighter, feeling his body tense up. "Where are you, Andrew?"

"The kitchen. I can hear em' coming in the diner."

"You need to call the cops, Andrew," Milford stated. "Hang up and call 911."

More silence. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Andrew started to breathe harder, and Milford could almost feel his hot breath in his inner ear. "I just can't, Mifford. Please, you have to come."

Milford pressed his thumbs against his temples, feeling the blood flow against his skin.

"Alright. I'm coming."

"Hurry."

As the line went dead, Jenny rolled over, letting out a cavernous yawn. Milford moved quietly so as to avoid waking her, crossing the room and opening his wardrobe. In the alcove left of the door was his old hockey stick, practically unused since his preteens. He took it in both hands, trying to get a feel on his makeshift weapon - imagining bludgeoning a burglar with it.

After taking a few practice swings, he put on a jacket and headed out into the pale blue moonlight.

(-)

He was at the Pizzeria by 12.30.

The shopfront was unfathomably eerie in the absence of light, with the enormous Freddy head casting its grizzly shadow across the darkened tarmac.

Immediately, Milford noticed the shards of broken glass scattered about near one of the front windows. Just the thought of encountering the yob who had smashed it made him clench the handle of his weapon harder. His hands were clammy in the cold night air, and he feared he would not able to wield it effectively when the time came.

Milford started to walk towards the pizzeria when he heard a loud bang from inside. It sounded like the cacophony of a tower of neatly-stacked cardboard boxes toppling unceremoniously to the ground. Tightening his grip on the hockey stick, Milford climbed through the shattered window frame and entered the pizzeria.

The first evidence he noticed of the burglar's trail of destruction was the collection of overturned tables. Some were broken at the base - apparently just for the fun of it. The floor, darkened like the choppy Atlantic waters, was akin to a makeshift sea, with the tables bobbing about like wooden buoys.

The chaotic trail lead across the room to the animatronics' performance area, where the back wall was labelled with obscene language written in a coarse, blood-red taint.

"James is going to flip out," Milford thought to himself. "All of the renovations and then this."

It was odd that the most immediate danger to his well-being was not the most prominent thought on Milford's mind. But then again, these burglars didn't know James. Maybe if they did they would have steered well clear of his property.

Surrounded by such thoughts, Milford nearly got his head caved in by a stealthy assailant who had emerged from a side office room. As it was, the floorboard creaking as he stepped closer was enough of an alarm to snap Milford out of his trance just in time to avoid the swing of a rather-pointy hammer.

The attacker drew back as a panicked Milford struck out with his hockey bat, wildly missing the opponent but succeeding in putting a reassuring distance between himself and the hammer.

"Get out of here," Milford cried, trying to sound intimidating but hampering this notion with an almost-asthmatic amount of panting.

His attacker laughed from underneath the black knit of his ski mask. "You ever even used that thing, bro? You're fucking shaking."

Milford knew he was trembling, but it wasn't until now that he'd associated it with anything other than adrenaline. Now he realised he was utterly terrified.

"I called the cops," Milford stammered. "They'll be here soon."

Not for the first time, Milford wished he had. Why had he let Andrew convince him otherwise?

The burglar didn't even pause. "If the cops were coming, then you wouldn't be here. So why don't you back off?"

Milford swallowed and started to move away. The burglar laughed again, but was cut off sharply by one of the most terrifying things Milford had ever heard in his entire life.

It may be a cliche to describe a particularly-perturbing scream as being like that of a banshee, but this wail was no better suited to another description. It was an animalistic noise, spurred on by a definitive danger to that person's life.

Milford's blood ran like an ice flow. The burglar with the hammer promptly dropped his weapon and fled through the window, practically leaving dust clouds in his wake. Milford tried to leave too, but his legs were filled with cement that was churning in the inside of a mixer. He daren't even try to move for fear of having them snap off like breadsticks.

Eventually, something forced him forwards, but not out of the restaurant as his brain was urging him to. Instead, he was propelled towards the back room where the sound had emanated from, pushing open the door and revealing a nightmarish scene.

Another burglar, similarly garbed to his fleeing companion, was lying face-down in a pool of blood. Andrew, quivering violently, stood by his body, hands covered in sticky red.

Milford's eyes doubled in size at the picture before his eyes. Andrew, harrowed into an unusual silence, simply pointed to the animatronic that stood in the corner of the room.

That was when Milford noticed.

The silver claws of the animatronic - clearly Freddy himself - were stained in blood.

Judging by the rips and tears in the fallen burglar's clothing, it had quite literally ripped him open.

But surely, it couldn't have. It must have been Andrew operating the suit. The animatronics didn't even have fuel in them yet.

The world was a white noise, but through it, Milford heard his own voice.

"Is he still alive, Andrew?"

The janitor nodded quickly, before tears sprung to his eyes and he collapsed, sobbing noisily, to the floor.

Milford approached the bloodied burglar, feeling for a pulse. Andrew was right - the man was still alive.

But he wouldn't be for long.

"Wait here, Andrew," Milford cried, getting up quickly. "I'm calling 911."

It was then that Andrew spoke for the first time in the interchange. Six words that would haunt Milford for the rest of his life.

"It weren't supposed to do that."

(-)

The police investigation did not last long. All the evidence they needed to make an arrest had been handed to them on a silver platter.

Andrew's 'attack' was sufficiently vicious and extreme that it hardly seemed justified as an act of self-defense. He was held by the police station for nearly 24 hours before being given a psychiatric evaluation - the result determining him as a mentally-unstable individual.

Once the hospitalised burglar had been administered an elixir of painkillers he was offered a shorter sentence for the identification of his hammer-wielding colleague. Unfortunately, the name given turned out to be fake, and the culprit was never taken to account for his crimes.

The damages caused to the Pizzeria delayed its opening by three months. As predicted, James had nearly blown his brains out of his earholes when he saw his renovation money squandered, and the redux work was almost solely carried out by Milford and Joe, the employees deemed to be the best manual labourers.

And so, as it was fated to be, Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria was opened for the first time in the summer of 1983, minus its original janitor. James claimed that it was for the best, and that he had been intending to replace Andrew with a full janitorial team anyway, as the size of the property now required a greater amount of manpower.

Yet, in spite of this logic, there was just something hollow about not working with Andrew any more. Milford quickly missed the sight of the hunched man swiping away in the corner of the storeroom when he came in every day to store his valuables.

But he didn't have the time to mope about, as within the first few weeks of opening the Pizzeria, he was completely swept up by his work; and in particular, his new duty.

The management of the animatronics.


	8. Bolognese (1985)

**Annnnnnnnnnd... we're back!**

* * *

**Chapter Six: Bolognese (1985)**

It was a busy day at Freddy Fazbear's.

Crowds of children and their increasingly-weary parents spilled into the restaurant at noon and the numbers barely dwindled all the way through Milford's shift. This meant that he was working at overcapacity, running about as though he were wearing bars of soap strapped to his shoes.

At around 3pm, Bonnie broke down.

The animatronics faltering was no rare occurrence, but to have a full breakdown in the midst of a customer rush veered on disaster. Luckily, there was always a spare endoskeleton on hand, meaning it was simply a matter of swapping costumes.

Not that this was an easy or gratifying task, of course. The rabbit's purple stuffing seemed to permanently stink of grease and rot, even if there were no visible signs of decay.

On top of all this, Foxy's jaw broke again. This was a less visible malfunction, but still required patching between sets of the Fazbear band (or indeed, patrolling through the restaurant).

Milford couldn't help but find Foxy's broken jaw rather disconcerting. There was something very garish and nightmarish about the grinding gears and twisted metal frame. Not for the first time, Milford pictured losing a limb to the jagged teeth, practically visualising his hand inside the fox's mouth, spewing blood as it was broken apart.

In spite of this, Milford enjoyed working on Foxy more than any of the other animatronics. Certainly more than Chica - a wide-eyed, freakish caricature of the animal it supposedly represented.

Unfortunately, working in the back room meant that Milford crossed paths more than usual with Ramses, the head of janitorial.

There was no way of sugarcoating it. Ramses Potter was a borderline sociopath.

From the moment he had walked through Freddy's doors for his first shift, Milford had hated Ramses. Everyone working in the restaurant did. There were plenty of justifiable reasons for this.

His venomous arrogance, often embodied by his trademark shit-eating smirk.

His terrible and often hugely-offensive humour, often involving terrorising children with discarded animatronic parts.

And of course, that one time he had urinated into his janitorial water and then mopped the restaurant with his own piss.

It was an absolute disgrace that he had not been fired.

However, there was also a justifiable reason for this. His father was the CPO of Fazbear Entertainment. This made him the boss of everyone in the Pizzeria, and unfortunately for all, he loved his son and was blind to his infamy.

Today, Ramses was unusually quiet when Milford entered, carrying Foxy's head in his hands. Immediately, the oddness of this fact put Milford on edge, and he watched the janitor closely as he crossed the room.

"Milf," Ramses cawed, not even turning to look.

"Hey," Milford replied. "What are you doing?"

Ramses was tinkering with the lockers in the corner of the room. With his back to Milford, he looked inconspicuous enough, and any unknowing passerby would have simply assumed he was interacting with his locker.

But Milford knew better. He started to approach the lockers, trying to look over Ramses' shoulder.

That was when he heard the squeaks.

He saw them just a few seconds later. Three shaggy, coal-black rats, shining with grime as though they were fresh from a sewer pipe. Looking from the open locker in front of Ramses to the squeaking vermin in his hands, it wasn't hard to put two and two together.

"What the hell are you doing?" Milford growled.

"It's called 'having a laugh at another's expense'," Ramses chortled. "And it's very fun."

Milford grabbed the janitor by the shoulder so sharply that for a second, he came close to dropping his wriggling bundle.

"Well, fun's over," he said. "Take these things outside and get out of here."

A wildness rose to the surface of Ramses eyes. "Or what, milf? You'll get me fired?"

Milford smiled through gritted teeth as he resisted the temptation to pummel the boy in front of him. "If you're lucky. I was just going to take you out back and sit on your head."

Ramses stared daggers through Milford's skull before spitting hard into his face and shaking off his grip. "You don't scare me."

Milford stood deadly-still as the fresh saliva trickled down his nose. Slowly, his fists started to curl by his sides until finger met palm and his nails dug lightly into his skin. He could imagine the fist ramming forwards, breaking the bridge of Ramsay's nose and spraying his blood. He saw it so vividly in his mind that for a few moments he wondered if it had actually happened.

But then, James threw open the door, and the moment passed.

"Barnes, I-" The manager of Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria stopped in his tracks, his tongue twisting like a piece of pasta as he saw the rats in Ramses' arms.

Was this it? Was the world's worst employee about to get the firing he deserved?

But then, the moment passed, and what Milford had presumed for great discomfort morphed into a forced smile on James' face.

"Ramses, please..." he said. "Take those back outside."

Ramses beamed like an angelic little schoolboy. "Of course, boss."

As he passed Milford he made an effort to slam into his shoulder, but knowing Ramses so unfortunately-well, Milford stepped back long in advance, rendering the gesture meaningless.

James' gaze followed the janitor until he had disappeared through the side door, before pivoting back to Milford.

"Barnes, the next show is in twenty minutes and people have complained about Chica's joints squeaking. Get on it."

And with that, he left, leaving Milford standing around aimlessly trying to figure out exactly what had just happened.

* * *

As the rest of the day creaked past, the weather took a turn for the better, with the sun peeking out from under its blanket of clouds.

Milford met with Joe for their lunch break in the nearby park. Previously, the short-staffing of the restaurant meant that no employee could stray too far from it at any point during the day, but thanks to the interventions of newly-rebranded Fazbear Entertainment, finding labour was no longer a difficult task.

Despite the smile on his face that indicated otherwise, Milford could sense that not all was well with his buddy.

"What's up?" Joe greeted, as Milford sat next to him on the bench.

"I could ask you the same question," Milford replied. "What's wrong, pal?"

Joe broke eye contact with Milford, his gaze dropping to the interesting scenery of the pavement below.

"It's my ex... She's trying to get custody of Jonathan..."

Milford felt as though his gut had been jabbed with a finger. "Oh, dude... I'm sorry..."

"S'ok," Joe said, smiling again. "She has a 'friend' in the court. They're trying to paint me as an unfit father...and succeeding."

"Let me help you fight this," Milford pleaded. "I've never met a more capable father than you. Let me testify."

"It's not going to make a difference at this stage," Joe insisted. "God, I can't stand it. The only thing in the world that matters to me now is that boy, and it's spinning out of my control."

Milford frowned as his friend's fist curled inwards like a frightened hedgehog, but practically the second that the notion of violence crossed his mind it vanished like a puff of air.

"Well, sorry to put a downer on things, pal," Joe sighed, standing up so abruptly the wooden bench creaked from the change in pressure.

"Don't be," Milford replied. "Whenever you need an ear to cuss or yell at, I'm your man."

Joe smiled appreciatively, before rolling up his sandwich bag and tossing it through the open slit of the nearby bin.

"Back to paradise," he grimaced.

Paradise was the antithesis of what transpired that afternoon.

The balloon-dispensing machine started to make a churning sound like a bad case of indigestion around 3pm. Prising the disgustingly-cheerful, almost-ghoulish smiling face open to fix the problem was enough to bring back memories of when he had designed the bloody thing, sketching out awful caricatures of demons past and present until his sculpture had come oddly-close to resembling his beloved boss, James.

"Would you like a red or a blue one?" the headless torso giggled churlishly, its voice warping beyond creepiness without the top of its cranium.

"Gotta feel sorry for the night shift with you skulking about," Milford heaved under his breath.

More so than perhaps any of the other animatronics, Balloon Boy had nightmarish round white eyes that followed your every move. Milford couldn't imagine a family sitting on an adjacent table getting too comfortable with this thing perched nearby, watching closely and with eerie intent.

"What was wrong with a squid?" Milford mumbled, recalling his original design. "Squids are friendly!"

Finally removing the debris from inside the animatronic, Milford withdrew his oily-black limb and snapped the Balloon Boy's head back into place. As if in response to Milford's success, the frightful child let loose with a disconcerting giggle, promoting a wave of shivers to run down the engineer's spine.

Turning, Milford came face-to-face with a dirty white rag that was quickly thrust over his eyes and nose. A sickly, pungent stench of chemical product wafted into Milford's nostrils, and he fell back gagging.

"Sorry," Ramses laughed. "Didn't see ya there, Milf."

"You son of a bitch!" Milford spluttered, still disorientated by the fumes. His eyes stung sharply from the exposure, tears surging from his pupils.

"I'll be more careful next time," Ramses sniggered, pushing his trolley away and out of reach of Milford's bunched fist.

"Bastard," Milford cussed, only just remembering to keep his voice at a hush as a disgruntled father with two daughters passed him and glared.

Quickly, he retreated to the bathroom, proceeding to splash torrents of cleansing water across his reddened face and eyes. He could feel the rage boiling inside of him - he was like a kettle, steam erupting from his spout and warping the shape of his porcelain body.

"Little shit," he whispered to himself, picturing Ramses' detestable grin before becoming awfully-aware of a small presence next to him.

Practically wincing at the thought, Milford turned and saw a little boy, no older than five years old, staring at him with a puzzled expression, the soapy bubbles on his outstretched hands going unwashed by the water from the tap.

It was of course, in that moment, that he realised he had wandered into the public bathrooms.

"Hi," Milford greeted, aware of his own gawkiness as he spoke. "Just ignore the trash-talking man. I'm on my way out."

The boy continued to stare blankly, so Milford started to retreat. That is, until the boy suddenly spoke.

"Are you a friend of Freddy's?"

Milford froze, trying to recall the 'corporate' answer to such a customer question.

"Yes," he said, cautious not to say anything that might provoke unhappiness. "Freddy and I are good friends."

The boy smiled slightly. "He's my favourite, but I don't like his friends. Bonnie scares me."

Milford pictured the purple peril, eyes cold and lifeless, mouth like a Muppet gone horribly wrong - it was hard to disagree with the boy.

"Me neither," he admitted.

The boy's face visibly lit up. "Finally! Somebody agrees with me."

Milford chuckled. "What's your name?"

"Matt," the boy replied.

"Well, Matt, I hope you have a good day here at Freddy Fazbears."

The boy grinned toothily. "I sure am!"

After that, he quickly trotted along, wiping his soapy fingers down his trousers as young boys tended to do. Milford examined himself in the mirror again, noticing the redness of his eyes, and wondering whether his appearance had initially startled the boy.

"Little shit," he repeated to himself, once again picturing the hateful janitor.

He'd made an enemy today. An enemy with connections. That could never bode well.

* * *

Matt exited the bathroom, still rubbing his hands across his jeans as he searched for his parents' table.

On-stage, Freddy was performing the Fazbear theme-song, a catchy yet somewhat repetitive and irritating ode. Microphone in hand, the bears mouth moved as though it were singing each lyric itself, even though any discerning ear could tell the background tune was a recording.

Matt spied his parents and younger sister across the room, and started to make toward them. However, all of a sudden a figure moved in front of him.

Matt looked up at the golden bear that stood in front of him, face frozen in an eternal goofy grin.

"Hey there, buddy," the Golden Freddy called. "I heard it was your birthday today!"

Matt shook his head firmly. "Nope."

Golden Freddy tilted its head in mock surprise. "Oh. There must be a mistake. I've got a big birthday cake with your name on it. What should I do now?"

Matt giggled mischievously. "Well, maybe I could help you eat it, Freddy!"

Golden Freddy threw up his paws in glee. "You'd really do that? Oh, thank you! Come with me, I'll show you the cake!"

Matt beamed as he followed Golden Freddy through the restaurant, imagining the size and taste of the treat he was about to receive.

Golden Freddy opened the door to a backroom that Matt had seen several employees go in and out of. Inside were several discarded animatronic costumes, mostly disembodied heads, which left Matt feeling greatly-uncomfortable.

"I don't like this room," Matt announced, looking around for his parents again.

"Just a little further, buddy," Golden Freddy sang, gesturing to a door which could only have been a supply closet.

Matt followed Golden Freddy through the door, for his gluttony was stronger than his fear. Inside, he quickly realised that there was no cake visible. The room was dark and frightening, and he saw the movement of rodents out of the corner of his eye.

"I wanna go back," Matt protested, trying to pull away from the bear. But Golden Freddy took his arm firmly, tugging him fully into the room, before closing the door on the pair.

"What's going on?" Matt whimpered, isolated by the walls of sheer black that comprised his every direction.

"I'm going to show you a secret," Golden Freddy whispered, his voice closer than before. "You have to promise not to tell anyone."

"I don't like this anymore," Matt cried. "I want to l-"

But he never completed his sentence, for it was at that moment that a large carving knive was thrust forcefully through his chest and into his heart.

There was barely even a sound.

Golden Freddy caught the boy as he fell, crimson red staining his yellow fur.

"Now, we can't leave you just lying around, can we?" he asked, still speaking in his klutzy cartoon-like voice.

"Time to find you a bag."

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	9. Lasagne (1985)

**A/N: Hey everyone, I just wanted to clarify a few things about the story going forward. As much as I like the animatronic characters, this story isn't about them, and therefore there will be no POV for them. Furthermore, the story will be going more and more AU as time goes by, simply because I think the FNAF lore as it is can get quite convoluted, and doesn't necessarily make for the best story. Therefore, I am telling the story roughly as I think it should be told, but apologies if this causes any offence to anyone; it is simply for the best of the story, in my opinion. **

**Anyway, on with tonight's fare!**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Lasagne (1985)**

Day 534.

Andrew woke up as usual, eyes firmly planted upon the mould-encrusted ceiling of his cell. The sun was streaming in through the cracks in his curtains, illuminating the crunchy stone pave that composed the floor and the sink/mirror that was built against the wall - an installation with an unfortunate tendency to drip incessantly throughout the night.

Climbing out of bed, Andrew splashed water onto his face from the sink, just as the hatch of his cell was drawn open, and a bowl of cement-like porridge was slid through.

Breakfast.

The voice of his permanently-tired jailor resounded through the latch as he stooped to pick up his morning slop.

"Visitation is at 11am, Andrew. Make sure you're dressed by then."

Andrew's weary face lit up like the spark of a firework.

_Visitation was today?_

Somehow he managed to forget; every first Monday of the month, Milford came to visit him.

It was a strange thing to have forgotten over the far more tedious factors of his life that sapped the joy and life from his body, but he wasn't too irritated by his own incompetence. It was, after all, a lovely surprise.

Andrew dressed quickly, but was disappointed when he read on the clock in the corridor outside that it was only 10.06. Keen to skip past the remaining 54 minutes of waiting, he picked up the book that rested on the floor beneath his bunk and started to read.

'Alice in Wonderland.' A smarter man might have realised the unsubtlety of distributing such a colourful book throughout a prison for the criminally-insane, but Andrew was not a smarter man. He resided in a state of blissful ignorance; a whimsical white world where daily life was a checklist and surprise visitations were the highlight of the week.

Eventually, the time came and Andrew was escorted from his cell by two guards armed with batons to a room on the east wing of the facility. The visitation room was easily the best-furnished area of the prison that Andrew had ever seen, although such sections of the facility such as the gymnasium and communal showers were unsurprisingly still shrouded in fog to his incurious eyes. Consistent good behaviour (essentially acting like a sheep for his entire stay) had warranted Andrew the right to speak to Milford face-to-face, instead of through a glass pane surrounded by grumpy guards.

When Andrew arrived in the hallway and saw Milford already waiting for him, smiling like he did every time he had visited, Andrew's mouth curled into a beacon of joy.

"Mifford!" he called, practically running up to his old colleague.

"Hi, Andy!" Milford greeted, embracing the lean man as he thundered against him.

Andrew drew back, his smile replaced with a confused stare. "Mifford, what happen to your face?"

Milford chuckled. "It's called a beard, Andy. And I've had it for months now."

Andrew grinned toothily, apparently remembering his previous visits. "Oh, yeah. How's Fredbear?"

They say old habits die hard, but Andrew's apparent refusal to revise the name of the restaurant for which he had worked nearly three years bordered on schizophrenia. Nonetheless, Milford just smiled in response and said "It's okay. Boring, unrewarding; the usual. I'm aiming to quit before the end of the year..."

Andrew giggled. "You say that every year!"

In fact, Milford had said this on every single visit. Funny the things that Andrew chose to recall.

"Although the restaurant is closed today."

Andrew looked startled, like a fat hedgehog peering in the direction of a lip-licking fox. "Why?"

"Some kind of missing child case. Someone went missing during Saturday's shift… They probably wandered outside, because there's no trace of the kid in the restaurant, but they have to carry out forensics and such all the same."

Milford noticed Andrew's gaze was now dropped to the floor; the very picture of frightened contemplation.

"It'll be fine," Milford assured him. "They're not going to close us down or anything…. In fact, Joe said that-"

"S'all wrong, Mifford," Andrew said softly. "I can feel it."

Milford frowned. "Why'd ya say that?"

Andrew shuddered slightly, and it was with great shock that Milford realised he was crying.

"It's all so wrong…" he whimpered.

Milford fumbled awkwardly. He wondered if the toll of prison life was finally starting to break Andrew. He was wondering whether to call to a nurse when Andrew suddenly rose up from his chair, his face contorted by terror, and grabbed Milford firmly by the shoulders.

"Save them!" he cried manically. "Save them!"

Milford was horrified, and tried to prise Andrew's hands away. "What are you talking about?"

By this time, orderlies had started to flood into the hall. Andrew was grabbed by two white-coated men and pulled away from Milford. Another doctor, a short Asian man who Milford assumed to be Andrew's psychiatrist, put a hand on Andrew's forehead and shushed him, before the whole parade was marched back through the open doors and out into the corridor.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Barnes," another whitecoat said. "He's usually so calm. Something must have agitated him."

Milford blinked hard to relinquish the grip that bewilderment had around his neck. He couldn't help but agree with the whitecoat... Something had really set him off, and he wondered if it was finally time for Andrew to be administered medication.

And yet… he had never seen a man so scared in his life.

* * *

"I'm telling you officer, here at Freddy Fazbear's, customer service and security is our top priority!"

The officer that James was sternly addressing snorted; apparently, he was amused by this statement. "Among other priorities, like covering your own ass."

His partner, a less witty man, tried to calm James. "I'm sure we'll be out of your hair soon enough, but we have to be thorough. This kid's parents are worried sick."

"I can't begin to imagine what they're going through," James admitted. "But this kind of ongoing investigation stirs up bad press… Our franchise is already stagnating; we don't need a full decline."

The second officer, now dusting the wall for prints, had nothing helpful to reply. James, trying his best to retain a certain level of professional conduct, took the blue-tinged floor plans for the restaurant from the table in front of him, rolled them open, and pointed a chubby finger at them insistently.

"What you see is what you get," James explained. "This kid cannot be in the restaurant."

The officer turned his head. "We know that, Mr. Hill. But there could be forensic traces that we can pick up on. Little kids don't just vanish into thin air without leaving a trace of their existence behind."

"Jesus Christ, what an ugly thing…."

The first officer had wandered into the backroom, and was now face-to-face with Chica, the jarringly-yellow chicken animatronic. Shining his flashlight into the robot's soulless glassy eyes as though he were expecting one of them to twitch, the officer remarked again.

"It's got teeth… A duck with teeth. I mean, really? Doesn't that terrify the kids?"

James closed his eyes, swallowing the indignant remark that had threatened to pop out of his mouth.

"It's a chicken, and no, the kids love her."

"That's surprising," The officer chuckled, scanning Chica's face once over with the flashlight just to be sure that there was no hidden evidence upon its textured face.

The forensic search continued for another hour or so, by which time James had taken to sitting out on the curb and staring at his fingernails, perhaps in the masochistic notion that willing hard enough would prompt them to slide out from under his skin. When the officers came outside to bid him farewell, he had one nail in the corner of his mouth, which he quickly withdrew, as though a scolded child.

"Alright, Mr. Hill," the second officer declared. "We're done here. For now."

"Did you find anything suspicious?" James demanded, polite demeanour now mostly melted away into bitter smarminess.

"Just one fucking creepy kid's restaurant," the first officer said. "Come on, Pete. Let's go."

The two officers got into their wagon and rolled off in a cloud of dust, leaving James to straighten his suit and examine his watch.

3:46.

There was still time to catch the late lunch rush.

* * *

"Can I get you to work the night shift tonight, Barnes?"

A simple question had never been quite so jarring in Milford's entire life. Almost immediately, his vision of his evening plans – order in a Chinese and surprise Jenny at home with a bouquet of flowers – crumbled into dust and blew away into the air.

As though sensing the panic rising in his employee, James interjected again with "Paid overtime, of course."

Milford frowned, debating whether the prospect of losing a job he fully-intended to leave soon was worth it for a cardboard box full of egg-fried rice and a slightly more enthusiastic bedside response from his girlfriend.

"I-"

"The night watchman hasn't been responding to calls lately," James explained. "But what with this police investigation and all, he's probably just decided that this job isn't for him anymore. Still, I'm going to fire his ass if he ever shows up here again."

Milford sighed inwardly. If he was ever going to move up in the world, he needed James on his side. A good reference was often the difference between make and break in a competitive job market.

"I suppose I co-"

"Great!" James roared, clasping Milford's hand in commendation, as though he were the developer of a successful cancer vaccine. "Joe has worked the night shift before. It's not particularly complicated but I'm sure he'd be happy to talk you through it."

As it turned out, Joe was not happy - happy to talk him through it, but not happy in general. Sadness seemed to run through his veins like an icy blue blood.

"There are just a few things you have to know, really" he began. "The animatronics were never given a specific 'night mode', and so when it gets quiet, they go try to move to where the people are, and in this case, that's the office. You know the animatronics better than anyone here… Just endoskeletons with fluffy costumes on, but still… Just, be careful. You wouldn't want one of these things falling onto the door or the floor… Tripping hazards, ya know?"

Milford wasn't really listening. Instead, he was fixated on the grim expression on Joe's face. "Are you alright, man?"

Joe heaved his shoulders and let loose with a gusty sigh.

"No, man. I'm really not. I'm thinking about taking some time off soon… This missing child case is stirring up bad thoughts about… well, you know… Personal issues right now…"

"Go, dude," Milford encouraged. "Nobody can argue; and, if James tries, sod the bastard."

Joe smiled but he didn't laugh; a far cry from his usual behaviour. "I think it's this place too… There's only so long you can look into those stupid robots' googly eyes and smiley faces before you want to stick a fork into their head… Not everything was made to be happy."

Milford watched Joe remorsefully as he trudged through the door, before turning his gaze to a discarded Freddy Fazbear head resting on the shelf.

Joe was right. Working at this place was like Stockholm syndrome. It suddenly occurred to Milford how strange it was that he had worked in one place for so long – especially when fellow employees like Jenny, Hai and Wendy had long since packed up and left.

What was it about this place that kept him here, like a moth to a golden wick?

But such thoughts soon dissolved into trivia as day turned to night and, soon enough, Milford's night shift was upon him.

* * *

The one thing Joe had neglected to mention about the night shift was absolutely monotonous it really was.

Sure, the sight of the darkened corridors that seemed to extend into eternity on his flickering monitor screen were initially fearful to behold, but as soon as he realised that his job simply required him to sit in a chair until 6am in the morning and occasionally look at the monitors, he soon regretted his decision to take the shift. Every so often, an animatronic would wander outside the door of his office and stand ominously still as it stared at the door, before patrolling back to its original position, which was about the extent of excitement that Milford experienced in the first two or so hours of the shift.

It was roughly 2:30am when Camera 7 started to malfunction.

Milford had taken to reading a local newspaper he had bought early the previous day. The headline was, unsurprisingly, the missing child case, or, as the newspaper eloquently put it, "Freddy FazFear: Child Goes Missing in Family Restaurant." After skipping over that particular story, which had featured an unsavoury interview with Ramses, Milford turned to the sports section, and began to flick through the statistics.

That was when he heard the loud boom echo down the corridor. It was the sound of a fuse blowing out, which wasn't an uncommon noise in Milford's line of work. Immediately, Milford looked up, and the grey static across Camera 7's screen caught his eye like the sight of a gold nugget in a mound of earth.

"What the-?" he began, before his voice petered out at the hearing of a much more disturbing noise from somewhere in the restaurant.

"Where are we going, Freddy?"

It was a child's voice. There could be no doubt. Milford practically leapt out of his seat, throwing open his office door and shining his torch out into the murky corridor.

"Just be quiet!" ordered another, much deeper voice.

Milford bit his lip and stepped out into the corridor, calling "Who's there?"

Deathly silence followed. Milford, now thoroughly on the edge of his comfort zone, looked back at his open office door wistfully, before swallowing the rock in his throat and moving further out into the darkness.

* * *

Andrew opened his eyes, a terrified whimper blurting out of his mouth.

He'd had the dream again. _The_ dream. The one with that creepy toy – a horrific thing, with vacuous black eyes, pale white wooden flesh and a curved smile that seemed to relish in his discomfort.

His sheets were soaked with cold sweat, so he climbed out of bed and moved towards his sink. Splashing water on his face and chest, Andrew tried to calm himself.

It was only a dream, after all. Dreams can't hurt you. Just like his mother had always said.

His breathing slowly began to return to normal, his chest puffing in and out at a regulated pace. He was just about to sit back on the edge of his bed when he heard the lock of his cell door turn with a metallic groan.

"Huh," he whispered aloud, watching with both fear and longing as the door swung open, revealing an empty corridor and the sound of a gentle clacking.

Tentatively, he approached the door. The closer he got to the open corridor, the more he started to feel ecstatic glee, the thought of escaping his nightmares now within his sweaty grasp.

A smile started to spread across his face; an expression that stopped abruptly when he reached the doorframe and saw what was lying at his feet.

* * *

Milford walked slowly, his sense of direction spiralling outwards frantically as he tried to pinpoint the direction from which the ominous sounds had emerged.

He reached the storeroom and paused, his hand freezing indecisively on the door handle. Pressing his ear against the door did not grant him any deeper perception of sound, although he was now more acutely-aware of the throbbing of blood in his head. Eventually, his body tensed and he pulled on the handle, swinging it open to reveal a room straight out of a child's nightmares.

The animatronics stood together in a line like recruits for a robot army, still as bottled water. Milford noticed, much to his disconcertion, that Bonnie's head was slightly tilted to the right, as though he had been knocked at some point during a nightly stroll. Although perfectly understandable, the sight of his costume in such an unkempt state only further emphasised the cold, unfeeling steel of the skeleton beneath and further alienated onlookers from the vision of the rabbit as a cuddly kid's entertainer.

Perhaps out of some perceived duty to the restaurant, or simply a desire for uniformity, Milford strode over to the animatronic, and straightened its head.

The image of the rabbit's empty face would remain permanently etched in Milford's long-term memory; for it was at that very second that his hands left the animatronic that he heard a sound that sent nauseating shivers all through his body.

From the supply closet right next to him, a girl screamed. And not just an 'I got chased by a dog in the park and want my mummy' kind of scream. It was a guttural, terror-stricken call that could only come out of a situation of mortal peril.

Milford exploded through the supply closet door, and the first thing he saw was blood. Crimson puddles all over the floor the stony tiled floor.

So distracted was he by the sight of the sanguinary spillage that he only noticed the rush of gold fur when it was far too late to react.

Golden Freddy punched him square in the jaw and he went sprawling to the ground, pain rocketing in his heavily-vibrating skull. He tried to stumble to his feet, but was grounded once again by an overhead smash to the back of his head by a paw that felt as though it were made of stone.

As Milford's vision started to whiten, the memories of the past few days came rushing back to him, as though to take him in their arms and carry him away to something better.

Jenny's smile when he had brought her toast and marmalade for breakfast…

Joe's downtrodden smile as he had assured him his emotional support…

And Andrew's face that day in the prison. Contorted, agonised, fear…

_Save them._

"You can't," Golden Freddy chuckled, before his foot came down on Milford's head and there was nothing but the void.

**TO BE CONTINUED…. **


	10. Gnocchi (1985)

**Sorry for neglecting the story. I was unable to post for a while but now I'm back and intend to deliver much more frequent updates.**

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Gnocchi (1985)**

Milford awoke with a splutter.

To be precise, a splutter of blood, which cascaded from the tip of his tongue and onto the stony pave beneath his face. His surroundings were dark and foreboding. He couldn't yet recall how or why it might be that he should be awaking in such nightmarish circumstances, as it seemed whatever blow had sent him to the ground had been a hard one. The sticky blood that emerged on the palm of his hand from a reactionary rub of the area served to evidence this further.

Then, the images started flooding back to him. Like a great dam splintering and breaking apart, the part of Milford's mind that had been locked to him, preventing his seeing - perhaps in protection - opened up, and he saw. He remembered.

The giggle from the darkness was the cement that made his fearsome memories into solid concrete. He recalled Golden Freddy – well, to be precise, the intruder who hid behind the yellow bear's friendly attire – taunting him as he raised his foot to his face. It was hardly surprising that such a sinister voice would be partnered with an odious laugh such as the one Milford could hear now, but what was more frightening was how childlike it initially sounded, before a deeper undertone was weaved in.

"Good evening, Milford," the nightmarish voice cackled, as the golden suit walked from the shadows into view, strangely disembodied at first glance, like a suit of medieval armour come to life. Like something out of a _videogame. _

Milford noticed the crimson red stains on the costume's fabric, particularly evident on the cuffs and neck, and felt bile rising in his stomach, remembering the child's voice that he had heard before he had left the office. With such dark thoughts bobbing in his mind he thought firstly not for himself, but for the welfare of the child.

"What did you do to them?" he growled, voice low but still poised with aggressive intent.

Golden Freddy pulled suddenly into the darkness with his left arm, and Milford saw that he was holding a child tightly by the cuff of their shirt. They did not make a sound, vocal chords likely strangulated by terror.

"No point in starting the fun without you," the ghoulish bear cackled.

It was nigh-on invisible in the pitch black, but Milford could picture the fear in the child's eyes. "Don't touch that child!"

Golden Freddy gazed sideways at Milford, before shrugging with the same kind of theatrical movement as a pantomime horse. The costume sagged, clearly oversized by comparison to its wearer, giving it a creepy, disembodied feel.

"I won't," he said quietly, before pulling out a large knife from concealment and stabbing the child straight through the neck.

Milford tried to scream but the cry was soundless, sucked from his lips by a vacuous fear that overpowered all of his other sensations.

The child dropped limply from the killer's hands, and Golden Freddy moved forward quickly, rounding on Milford before he had even had the time to process the events of the last couple of seconds.

"You weren't supposed to get involved," the murderous costume scolded. "You're going to pay for that."

Freddy grabbed Milford by the front of his shirt, and with an enormous display of brute force, tossed him into the other corner of the room. Milford, paralysed by shock and fear, barely reacted, only registering the sensation of being moved when he hit the ground hard and heard the distinctive sound of bones breaking. At that point, he cried out in pain, and Freddy rounded on him again, kicking him in the head and silencing his pitiful groans.

"Do you know where we are?" Freddy asked, answering his own question without even waiting for a response. "I'm not surprised that you don't. Officially, where we are standing doesn't exist. But… eh, you be the judge. Looks pretty solid to me."

Stooping down next to Milford, who was dribbling blood onto the tiles, he continued; by now, his clown-like, inhuman persona was slowly peeling away to reveal something much more ominous.

"This is the 'safe room.' Ironic name, really, considering the way it's being used, but it's convenient for my purposes. This is the room they don't want you to know exists. It's practically invisible to the untrained eye, but if you have a knack for it, and you've known a place for long enough, you can root these kinds of things out… Like a dog."

Milford must have made a whimper-like sound unbeknownst to himself, for at this point Freddy tutted, and, taking him by the hair, smashed him head-first into the cobbles. Pain ripped across his face; Milford was almost sure that his face was shattered, but only almost, for there was no sensation in his flesh at all.

"Did I say you could talk? No, I don't think so. Anyways, you got the jist of it. Secret room, nobody will ever find you, yadda yadda yadda. But that's not nearly enough for a meddler like you."

Freddy stood up, approaching a silhouetted shape that stood erect nearby. With a big heave of breath and a creaking, grating sound, the costumed killer wrenched the object closer to Milford, where, in his haze of confusion, thought he was looking at a Bonnie endoskeleton. Without considering his actions, he mumbled inwardly "Buh-nah."

Seconds later, his head was cracked against the tiles again. White noise, a deathly silence, followed.

"No, Milford. Not 'Buh-nah.' Not Bonnie, either. This is a special animatronic. Not like the others. His name is Spring Bonnie, and you're going to become intimately acquainted over the next couple of days… If you survive that long…. Springie is known to have troubled digestion…"

Although Milford was almost unconscious by this point, he was aware that he was being moved from the ground, and placed roughly inside the suit which he had seen wheeled out of the darkness. He heard a metallic groan, but was unaware of what had caused it, which was probably for the best.

The Springlock mechanism closed around his body; it was, truly, the spitting image of an iron maiden.

Golden Freddy stepped back to admire his handiwork. The two costumes looked each other straight in the eyes; perhaps, finding some understanding.

And then, Freddy laughed and called out to Milford.

"Goodnight! Don't let the pistons bite!"

* * *

Andrew stared at the small object that sat at the door of his opened cell. The small object stared back, with its haunting, vacant eye sockets and sinister curved smile.

It was the marionette. The thing from his dreams.

It was here.

"But… how?" Andrew whispered, pinching his arm hard with the full expectation that he would be yanked out of the waking nightmare he was most certainly experiencing.

But he did not awake, for he was already frighteningly-conscious.

The marionette was sat in a heap, its head at an angle, as though it had been set down by another, unseen individual. But Andrew suspected a much more terrifying cause, for he did not feel the presence of another human being for a wide space around him. No, this puppet had come to sit on the stone tiles outside of his cell all by itself. And, apparently, had levered the door so that Andrew could join it…for whatever sinister purpose.

Andrew was about to slam his cell door shut and run back to his bed when the marionette suddenly twitched, its head raising to look at Andrew. The former janitor trembled, a yelp of terror trying desperately to form in his throat but amounting to nothing but saliva and inhuman burbles.

Unfortunately, the miraculous animation was just the start of the show.

Before Andrew's tear-blurred eyes, the marionette rose from the floor, as though it were attached to a bunch of helium balloons, or it was being orchestrated in an elaborate puppet act. But this was not the case. The puppet rose in a clean line, limbs unfurling but back and head never losing their beam-like straightness. Eventually, when the toy was at human-eye level, it stopped. By this point, Andrew was cowering on his knees, hands over face, fully expecting the end to come.

But it didn't.

The marionette floated silently, not moving an inch. Andrew tentatively looked up, just in time to see it start to hover down the corridor, body still moving at a glacial yet eerily-mechanical pace.

Clearly, it was expecting Andrew to follow it.

Any rational, sane man would have ignored such an expectation without a second thought.

But Andrew was not a rational or sane man. And he was too scared to do anything otherwise.

* * *

Time was ticking away at a glacial pace. Each minute felt like an hour, although it was strictly impossible to tell how much time was passing anyhow, as Milford slipped in and out of consciousness, each time awakening in darkness and confusion once more.

The suit prevented any movement of any kind besides blinking and the occasional puff of breath, although for this Milford was glad, for he sensed the truth in the killer's assurances that the mechanism could snap shut and kill him at any time. It was less like an iron maiden on the inside than it was an oversized bird cage, with each holding bar thinner than a rabbit's bone. At one point, a rather too-zealous breath caused the whole mechanism to shudder slightly, and Milford to nearly wet himself in fear.

At some timeless point, the night came to a close, replaced by the shining golden beams of daylight, and Milford heard movement vaguely through the walls. It was James, coming in to open up the restaurant and, presumably, to relieve Milford from his night shift duties. In his state of despair, Milford had forgotten that he had even been on such a shift, and so when James' ever-irritated tones pierced his eardrums, a surge of recognition, and desperate realisation, flooded over him.

He contemplated calling out for help, wondering if the muffled, pithy cries would be enough to agitate the springlocks, or, miraculously avoiding that, James' subsequent exploration of the sounds and ultimate tinkering with the machinery. Either way, it did not seem likely that he would survive such an outcome, and so his lips remained sealed.

The rest of the day ticked past at an infrequent pace. Milford heard the distant rumblings of gas cookers and deep-fryers sizzling meats and doughs, the occasional chit-chat of some of the less-qualified, often-teenaged staff, and, on one very rare moment, the sound of shoes clopping around just outside the safe room. Often the noise from the outside world was more than Milford could bear, and he would simply focus on squeezing his head, as though caught between the pincers of a sideshow crane, to block out the happier, ignorant sounds.

Finally, 5PM came, and the staff filtered out of the restaurant one-by-one, taking their incessant chatter with them. Eventually, only the sounds of the janitors remained, and even they, with their sloshing of water and squeaking of mops, eventually faded out to a vacuum of nothing. For hours then, Milford was in darkness – a void so empty and hopeless he may as well have been dead, trapped in the fields of Asphodel for all eternity, awaiting the end of time.

Then, he heard the sound of the safe room being cautiously and carefully opened, and the muffled footsteps of a person walking lightly – as though in costume.

"Good evening, Milford. Still alive in there?"

Milford did not respond. Not because he didn't want to, fearful of the dainty mechanisms around him or simply defiant of his captor, but because he found himself completely unable. Sensations of life, like breath and speech, no longer troubled him. The quiet pulse of his own beating heart was his only assurance that he was still alive and not trapped in the delirium of some damned afterlife.

The voice continued, chuckling. "Well, whatever. I've brought two new friends for us to play with… What are your names, kids?"

"Danny," came one soft voice, followed soon after by another, more effeminate speaker. "Rachel."

For the first time in countless hours, Milford felt something in his numbed body. It was a tightness in his chest area; a recognition that he was deeply disturbed and frightful by what he was hearing.

"We're just looking for some cake…. Aren't we, guys?"

There was no response from the children, but Milford sensed they were nodding, swiftly and tearfully.

"Well, I don't see any cakes, do you? Guess we'll just have to make some fresh. Let's start with the strawberry jam…"

In the darkness of the suit it made no difference, yet Milford squeezed his eyes shut regardless as the first, terrified screams came out, silenced quickly by a nauseating wet sound, like raw meat being cut with a knife. The second child, to their credit, never said a word to communicate their fear, although Milford was sure that their facial expression would have told the story without need of speech. When it finally went quiet again after the sound of soggy dough hitting a breadboard, Milford opened his eyes at last, a stream of tears coursing out.

"Well, that's that, then," Golden Freddy had said, before the sounds of his scurrying indicated that he had left; presumably, to dispose of the bodies of his victims.

Milford cried for a long time. Tears, like the great, boundless oceans that they are often compared to, did not stop flowing from his eyes for a considerably-longer time than it would seem scientifically possible - for a man who had not drank anything in nearly 24 hours.

He had, by this point, accepted the reality of his grim situation. He was going to die down here. Whether it was malnutrition, suffocation or the piercing agony of a metal endoskeleton caving in around his torso (or perhaps a combination of all three) didn't matter.

Nobody except Golden Freddy knew that he was in here. Perhaps they would find his body in a couple of decade's time, emaciated by the march of time, and finally give his friends and family some closure.

Maybe Bill Murray and his team could even help him find his way back to Jenny.

But it wasn't up to him. Not anymore.

But then, at the breaking point of his own sanity, he heard it. That unmistakable sound.

"In here? Really?"

Somehow - however improbably - it was Andrew.

And the sound he heard next confirmed what he only could have hoped for in his wildest dreams.

He had found the door.

* * *

Andrew had been following the marionette for nearly the whole day, when it had finally arrived, riding the air like a limp surfboarder, at his old place of work. Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria.

Only, Andrew had never known it by that name. When he saw the title on the board he was confused, but upon the sight of Freddy's cheerful maw, his eyes lit up with joy.

"Fredbear!" he grinned. "It's you!"

The marionette gazed back to ensure his companion was still following. Andrew, now giddy with joy but still focused on the task at hand, came quickly as the puppet raised both of its wooden palms, and the locked restaurant doors swung open.

It was dark inside the building, but Andrew could still recognise the old layout for what it was, in spite of its obvious redecoration. The tables that he had once mopped down so lovingly, and with such care and attention, still stood gleaming about the floor, ever as majestic as ever. The showstage, now adorned with ribbons and harsh primary coloured paint, still reached out to him with open arms, welcoming him like an old friend.

Lost in his wonderment, Andrew nearly missed the marionette's gesturing at the storeroom door.

"What's in there?" Andrew grumbled, fearful now but with an overpowering curiosity that could not be ignored. Following the marionette inside, he was then faced with a stone wall. Confused as to what he was supposed to see, Andrew opened his mouth to protest, but the marionette cut him off by moving against the brickwork, pushing it back and revealing a secret door that swung open on rusty hinges.

The room inside was dark – nearly impenetrably so- but Andrew could make out a faint shape in the corner. Upon closer inspection, he realised he was looking at a Bonnie costume – only it was green in colour, and strangely bulging, as though it were stuffed with wool or spare parts.

The old janitor nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a groan emerge from the peculiar costume, and had to swallow the nausea that rose in his stomach as soon as the recognition hit him.

"Milford?" he asked.


	11. Panini (1985)

**Chapter Nine: Panini (1985)**

Milford sat with Andrew in the storeroom for some time, just breathing in and out, fascinated and humbled by the movement that had so recently been restricted to him. The suit had left red marks all over his hands, face and ankles, and a stiffness had set in over his whole body, as though he were an awakening Egyptian mummy who was startled to discover the majority of his insides sitting in canopic jars next to him.

To his credit, Andrew was just about the quietest Milford had ever heard him. He wouldn't have minded if Andrew had been yapping incessantly, since he had rescued him from certain death, but the fact that he wasn't was extraordinarily considerate.

Milford supposed the ex-janitor (and now, ex-con, it seemed)'s newfound vow of silence had everything to do with the nightmarish marionette puppet that was accompanying him. He hadn't been able to bring himself to look at it for very long, but when he had snuck a look, he had been scared senseless of its permanent, sneering smile and beady, surveilling eyes.

And so it was that the pair came to sit in near-deathly silence for around ten minutes, each consumed by their own thoughts. When Andrew finally spoke, it was actually a relief to Milford, who was starting to feel like he'd been buried alive.

"Who is he, Mifford?"

Milford saw the golden fur, the lifeless eyes and bloodstained wrists, and shuddered heavily.

"A psychopath," he whispered. "A cold-blooded, violent psychopath."

It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it. Ramses was, and remained the first name to cross his mind, but there were escapees from prison about all the time in places like this. Hell, he was with one right now.

Andrew quieted down again for a few moments, mulling over what he had been told. Then, he spoke again.

"We need to kill him, Mifford."

Milford looked Andrew straight in the eye. If he was thinking rationally, with his head on straight and with no personal bias, Milford would've realised just how irrational and downright sinister Andrew's assertion was.

But he was not thinking rationally. He had been locked inside a metal tomb for over twenty-four hours, fully expecting to die at any given moment. He did not have his head on straight. The one and only thought that occupied his head at that point in time was how he could get Golden Freddy's head in between the hungry jaws of a rusty metal bear trap. He was wondering how long the child murdering sadist would survive with two knives thrust through his eye socket.

Besides, if he went to the police, the killer was certain to abscond, never to be seen again.

"Agreed," Milford whispered.

And so the deal was struck. A pact forged in blood without the spillage of a single drop.

Not a single further word was spoken by either on the matter. The first time that they so much as moved was when the first shafts of sunlight pierced the darkened room, and Milford realised that the day had - finally - come.

* * *

"Hi, Jenny."

For a moment there was no sound on the other end of the line. Milford assumed that she had taken in a deep breath whilst gasping, or was simply too shocked to speak.

But then she spoke. And speak did she.

"I'm sorry that I didn't let you know about it," Milford said quietly, after having his eardrum nearly blown out by the force of her simultaneously-relieved and panicked voice. He'd just fed her some cock-and-bull story about a fast food business convention in Los Angeles, and unfortunately, it did not seem she had taken the bait. Nevertheless, she didn't seem to care - only that he was safe. If she thought that he'd been off on a drunken bender of infidelity, he would find out when he got home.

"Just call and let me know," Jenny concluded breathlessly. "I was worried sick."

"I know, babe," Milford conceded. "I know."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

The phone went dead and he slung it back on its hook, before stepping out of the booth.

"Was that Jenny?" Andrew asked, a sly grin on his face.

"Yeah, Andy. Look, no matter how it happened, you're an escapee from custody, and we need to get you out of sight."

Andrew's smile faded as he remembered that he had been in prison just the night before. Suddenly, his eyes welled up, and he took the appearance of a scared little boy. The marionette was still by his side, slumped against his leg, which certainly didn't help to disperse the unflattering image.

"I don wanna go back there, Mifford," he sobbed. "I din't do nothing wrong. It's nasty, and smells funny..."

Milford sighed, thumb and forefinger pinched to his throbbing skull.

"Look, we can figure all that out later, but if we're going to catch this guy, we need to get some semblance of order here."

Andrew nodded glumly. "Yeah, right on... Mifford?"

"What, Andy?"

"How are we gonna catch him?"

Milford bit his nail hard, a sign that he was doing a lot of thinking. "Well, I'm going to have to do some explaining to James first. Assuming he doesn't fire me on the spot, that is. If I still have my keys at the end of the day, then we'll talk about plans to get at this guy... Plans involving rolling pins and meat grinders..."

* * *

"So, let me get this straight, Barnes..."

"Sir."

James pressed a flat palm to his head and a gormless expression took him over.

"So, whilst you were on night shift duty, you were struck down with a sudden case of pneumonia, and rushed home, without leaving so much as a note. You then spent the next day recuperating without getting your wife-"

"Girlfriend."

"Girlfriend... to call up the Pizzeria and explain the situation... Then you remarkably recovered and decided to come into work today...And that's your story?"

Milford shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah."

"You do know you have red marks all over your face, don't you Barnes?"

"I fell over," Milford said quietly.

"Oh, I SEE..." James cried, with a perfect facade of dumbstruck realisation. "It's so obvious now... I'm a fucking idiot!"

Milford was heavily attempted to reply with a "Yes, sir", but then he remembered that he was trying to keep his position, and so stayed silent.

James stared daggers at him, as though reading his mind. "Barnes, I think I should fire you right now... In fact, there's no doubt... I should fire you! But, the thing is, I'm not going to."

Eh?

"The thing is, if I thought any of that was true, which I don't, I'd find it absolutely astounding that you would fight to keep this position here... I mean, clearly its a complete health hazard. Four walls and a plague of disease... I can only think that your a masochist, Barnes, who works here because he hates himself and enjoys being punished day after day with the utter... tedium of the work. And who would I be to deprive you of that?"

Milford was too stunned to reply, as James clasped his shoulder so hard it went white beneath his blue overalls.

"Oh, and Barnes... If you ever tell me a load of bullshit that stinky again, I'll feed you to the animatronics..."

"Yes, sir," Milford muttered feebly, as his psychotic superior strode back to his office.

"He really said all that?"

Milford nodded numbly, and Joe started to laugh like an Irishman in a pub.

"Christ, and I thought Ramses was a loon..."

"Yeah," Milford muttered, scanning around the restaurant floor for any sign of the psychotic janitor.

Lost in his one-dimensional thoughts and anguishes, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Joe rested a hand on one of his shoulders.

"You alright, man? You seem really out of it... Sure you're feeling alright?"

"I already told you, Joe, the pneumonia thing was a bullshit ruse."

"Yeah, I know, but... maybe you really have caught something... Or, are you still hungover...? You don't need to be doing this right now, man. Not for $5 an hour..."

"I'll be fine," Milford snapped, and Joe withdrew his hand with the speed and wide-eyedness of a bounding rabbit caught in the lights of an oncoming truck.

"Alright, I'll leave you to it..." Joe muttered, walking off.

Milford instantly felt a heaviness in his chest, like a vat of cement had been emptied down his throat. Joe had only been trying to help - his best friend in the world. But Milford knew the only thing that could help him now was the crunching sound that the Golden Freddy killer's skull would make when Milford put his head through a compacter.

Ramses was, predictably, late into work, coming into the Pizzeria at nearly-noon with a smug smile that read "I just kicked a squirrel up the arse and feel great." Milford had wanted to restrain himself, but the second he saw the janitor, and performed the simple calculation of whether the Golden Freddy costume would have fit on him, he knew he would be unable to stop himself - and didn't care much anyhow.

He retreated into the corner as Ramses entered the storeroom to pick up his bucket of water and mop, waiting until he was off his guard and then-

"Milf!" Ramses had noticed him behind the cupboard and was giving him a loathsome grin. "Have intercourse with any mares lately?"

Milford started to walk towards Ramses, the expression on his face a pure concentration of hate and rage. The janitor didn't even flinch, going so far as to goad him further with cries of "Horse fucker!" until Milford leapt forward suddenly, hands closing around Ramses' throat.

The janitor gagged, hands moving to intercept Milford, but finding no opportunity to prise them away. He started to kick his feet helplessly at Milford as he was lifted off his feet and slammed into the wall so hard that the animatronic pieces sat around the room rattled.

"Where's the costume?" Milford snarled.

Ramses just trembled, head shaking. Milford increased the pressure.

"Where's the Golden Freddy suit? And where are the children's bodies?!"

The confrontation was starting to cause a racket outside on the restaurant floor, even though all they could hear was the shouts. Milford could hear crying children accompanied by the angry shouts of their concerned parents.

Before Milford could even register the sound of the door opening, Joe was next to him and was striking his arm hard, trying to secure Ramses' release.

"Milford, let him go!" Joe shouted, now pounding with both fists.

The pressure proved too much for Milford, and with seething rage, he tossed the janitor's now-limp body aside, where it flopped like a beached fish.

"What are you doing, man?" Joe cried, his expression a cocktail of fear and horror.

Milford clenched both fists hard, sensing that he had missed the one opportunity he had been given to silence the murderer. With Joe the only one in close proximity, and an incomprehensible surge of pent-up fury still bloating inside him, Milford rounded on his friend, smashing him in the jaw with a fully-formed and bony punch.

Joe went sprawling to the ground, blood spewing from his lip. At this point, James burst through the door, metaphorical scythe in hand.

"What the flaming fu-" James' words died on his lips upon seeing the fallen bodies of Joe and Ramses. Milford followed his gaze as it traced the blood on Joe's mouth to the specks on Milford's knuckle as it moved at an anxiety-building, yet glacial pace.

Finally, James' eyes met with Milford's, and twisted into two erupting volcanoes.

"Barnes, you are FIRED!" he screamed, marching up to Milford and tearing off his identity badge with one, whip-like motion.

Milford didn't say a single word. He'd known it was coming since he had entered the Pizzeria that morning. The fact that James had refrained from firing before was somewhat ridiculous, but as a man whose business had now been affected, it wasn't surprising. Still, he had failed in his one goal, and for that, he was unflinchingly angry.

"Here," he growled, tossing down his set of keys at James' feet. "You old fart."

James' face went a bright tomato red, but he said nothing, for fear of further developing the escalating tensions in the restaurant.

Milford walked hurriedly out of the storeroom and through the restaurant floor, ignoring the angry gazes of the customers around the room. He strode straight to the main doors, flung them open, and walked out into the fresh air, without looking back once.

* * *

Milford found Andrew exactly where he had left him.

The once-janitor had loyally stuck to his promise not to move out of the town's local landfill site, despite the putrid stench that emitted from the towering mountains of assorted garbage that sat about the area.

"Mifford!"

"Gee," Milford thought as he approached Andrew's nesting spot. "He's actually pleased to see me."

But, then again, it wasn't exactly a shock to imagine that someone who'd previously been locked in prison for around a year might be in a much more jovial mood having been sprung.

Milford wasn't sure what he would do about Andrew once the whole 'Golden Freddy business' was taken care of, but he knew that he wasn't going to hand Andrew over to the authorities. At this point in time, he was the one person in the world that he could rely on - talk to about the darker happenings surrounding the Pizzeria, and not be treated like a liar or worse, a lunatic.

"It didn't go so well," Milford confessed when he had sat down beside Andrew. "I lost it in there, pinning them psychopath to the wall. I'm still not sure whether he's the one or not, but I'll never be able to touch him now. He'll have his 'daddy's protection' for months to come."

"So, what now?" Andrew asked worriedly. "How we gonna stop the purple guy?"

Milford frowned. "Purple guy?"

Andrew looked a little bemused, like he was surprised Milford couldn't understand what he was talking about. "The killer."

"Why'd you call him 'the purple guy?'" Milford asked, tense now, but without really knowing why. It was like Andrew had somehow, inexplicably, gotten under the skin of the killer - under that horrible, bloodstained costume - and seen into the mind of the beast.

"That's what the puppet call him," Andrew said, rather too casually, as he gestured with his thumb to the limp marionette sat on his lap.

"Are you saying that thing spoke to you?"

Andrew shook his head. "Not spoke... It showed, Mifford. Just like it did when it took me to you."

"Okay... Why purple?"

Andrew shrugged, almost sheepishly. "I'm not sure. But, I think it's the animatronics, Mifford. It's something t'do with 'em."

Milford furrowed his brow at the mention of Freddy and friends. "What do the animatronics have to do with this?"

Andrew smirked. "Everything, Mifford. They ARE Fredbear's. I think that the 'purple man' is how they see him."

At this, Milford couldn't help but laugh. "Andrew, the animatronics don't SEE anything. They're robots."

"They may be robots, but Fredbear's is their home, Mifford." Andrew sounded actually angry at this point, and he was frowning deeply. "This guy, the purple man, he threatens that for them. And they dun't like it, Mifford."

Milford sighed, knowing better than to argue. He looked down at his fist, remembering how he had slugged Joe - an act that, whilst he didn't exactly regret just yet, he felt guilty about. He'd rather it had been James than him; Joe was just unfortunate enough to have gotten in his way.

"The killer has eyes and ears in the restaurant," Milford acknowledged, still picturing Ramses in his head. "They'll know not to go back to the safe room. So, now we're kinda stuck."

Andrew looked down mournfully, before apparently being struck by a burst of inspiration, head rising again, complete with devilish smile.

"I think I have an idea," he said.

Milford did not have high hopes, but nevertheless, he listened attentively.

"Just one problem," Andrew said.

"What?"

"We're gonna need to get inside Fredbear's."

* * *

Without his keys, it proved difficult for Milford to get Andrew and him inside the pizzeria. Luckily, like many low-security fast food joints, Fazbear's had many chinks in its armour that were easy to exploit, and within ten minutes, the pair were inside the storeroom, the lifeless animatronic suits standing around rigidly like toy soldiers in a troubled child's bedroom.

"What am I looking for, exactly?" Milford asked Andrew, as he prised open Freddy's cranium, intending to open his CPU.

"I thought you was the tech man," Andrew replied unhelpfully.

"Yes, but the tech you're suggesting these animatronics have does not exist anyway. We're going on the word of a wooden puppet."

Andrew shrugged. "Check it all."

Milford sighed, still not quite believing that he had been persuaded to come. With a grunt, he pulled out Freddy's central processor, laying it down on the table in front of him.

"Pass me the screwdriver, will you, Andrew?" he asked, accepting the tool from the janitor and getting to work on the microchip.

"I'm gonna plug his processor into the camera feed," Milford explained, tinkering away speedily. "If what you said is true, then these guys might have seen something."

Andrew nodded thoughtfully, watching as the two ends were met, and the monitor flickered into life.

Astonishingly, there was truth to Andrew's claims. The animatronics did have primitive CCTV outlets - although he doubted that this meant the robots actually SAW. More likely, it was a failsafe intended to catch out employees who may have been tempted to steal from the premises.

Milford looked at the screen. It was dark, slowly brightening into silvery grey static.

But then it stopped. And a noise like a warbling turkey being put through an arcade machine bounced off the ceilings and walls.

Green, capitalised font lit up the screen, followed by another horrible pitch of sound. As Milford read the words on-screen, he realised that the noise they had heard was a terrible, computer-generated laugh.

"Mifford?" Andrew's voice sounded distant - timid, even. He was staring at the screen, shuddering in spite of himself, trying to make sense of what he saw. "Whaa... What is it?"

Milford scanned the green text again.

**4d-12go.**

Milford read the line from every possible angle. What did it mean?

And then, it struck him. The terrible realisation.

"Four down, one to go," he whispered.

_The children._

And then, the phone rang.

Andrew jumped at the sound, head darting about in confusion, but Milford stood deathly still. After what he had been through, nothing could shock him now.

"He's watching us," Milford said. "He always has."

As he looked around the room frantically, he saw the tiny black box in the corner of the room. There must be one in every part of the Pizzeria. The unobtrusive, covert secondary system of cameras that nobody could ever have known were there.

The phone continued to ring. Milford, fearful because he already knew who would answer, reached out to the receiver, finally tugging it free from the wall and holding it close to his ear.

"Hello," he whispered.

"Milford! Milford, is that you?"

Jenny. For a moment, relief flushed through Milford's body, like an internal spring-cleaning.

"It's me, Jenny! It's me!" he cried, actual glee in his voice now. "How did you know whe-"

But then he heard the second voice. The one in the background.

"Hello, Milf," Golden Freddy purred.


	12. Al Fresco (1985)

**Chapter Ten: Al Fresco (1985)**

Milford stopped breathing, feeling fingers of solid ice slide tenderly down the back of his neck, slipping down all the way to the end of his spine like the keys of a xylophone.

"Oh, Milford?" The voice cooed again. "Did we get cut off? Just like Jenny's fingers?"

"Don't you dare touch her!" Milford snarled, finding his voice in a rush of adrenaline and fury.

The killer laughed - that horrid, child-like enthusiasm that had haunted Milford for the past two days, inhabiting his every waking thought. "Good, good. I wouldn't want the fun to end just yet."

"Where are you?" Milford growled, feeling his grip tighten on the receiver with every passing moment.

"Oh, we're at home, Milfy! YOUR home, to be precise. And we have a special guest star! Say hello, Rosie!"

Milford's breath caught in his throat, nearly choking him, as a small girl whispered a soft "Hello" down the line.

"There's a good girl," the killer cheered. "I assume you got my message, hmmm? My task is nearly at its end, but Rosie might be my favourite yet! You just have to come down and meet her, Milford!"

Milford crushed the receiver in his hand, hearing the plastic strain and crack.

"Oh, I'll be there," he hissed. "With a shotgun and a meat tenderizer."

The killer let out a throttling chuckle. "Oh, yes. I'd expect nothing less. But be warned, if you do decide to bring law enforcement with you, I'll make sure I take both Rosie and Jenny down with me." Another gut-wrenching snigger.

"I'm not calling anyone," Milford spat. "This is between you and me, you sick little fuck."

"Quite right. No more masks. It's time to have a face-off! Ha-ha! See what I did there, Milford? I said fa-"

Milford slammed down the receiver, unable to bear another second more of the sickening smugness; the overbearing tide of insanity. Yet, as the ringing of the killer's voice in his ears started to dull out, he found his anger too subsiding, replaced by something close to tiredness - resignation, almost.

Suddenly, it didn't seem to matter any more. Things were going to resolve themselves regardless of what he did. He was no longer the hero.

When he looked back at Andrew, the janitor was staring at him fearfully.

"Was that him? The Purple Guy?"

Milford nodded without making eye contact. "Yes, it was. I think his little game is up. And not by any choice of ours."

"What now?" Andrew's voice sounded tiny, further away than ever before, as if he were phasing out of Milford's world and into another, where blood, guts and pizza did not belong together.

"I'm going to confront him," Milford said quietly. "And if I can - if I get the opportunity - I'm going to slay him."

"You can't go, Mifford!" Andrew wailed. "He'll kill you!"

"I have to, Andy, he's got Jenny..." Milford replied, more weary now than anything else. "He's already won, by his standards, if he chooses to. The only hope I have left is that his standards aren't quite so low."

Milford started to walk, and Andrew, in a panicky and shaken voice, got up to try and stop him.

"Don't you even want me to come?"

Milford stopped, sighed, and looked back. "Stay here, Andy. When it's over, I'll let you know."

And with that, he was gone. He walked straight out of the storeroom, through the darkened restaurant, and out into the night, at which point the darkness closed its jaws around him and swallowed him whole.

Shakily, Andrew sat down upon a wooden box. After a few seconds, he started to cry.

* * *

Milford did not take the bus back home. Mainly because he was in no fit state to patiently wait for half an hour and however long the inevitable delay would last, but also because walking kept the blood pumping to his head; kept him alert, kept him thinking.

But, soon enough - sooner than he had truly wanted, he stood at the end of his path, the stone pave he had walked up so many times without giving it a thought now like a fiery walkway into hell's gaping mouth. The very shrubs he had tended and weeded come weekends were transformed into the faces of jeering devils and monsters with forked tongues and fiery tridents, all waiting for their chance to do their damage.

The door was ajar - open ever-so-slightly, but just enough to create a sense of nerve-grinding foreboding as he closed in on it. As he pushed, the door creaked as it always did when he opened it, but this time it was a much louder, grotesque sound. The door swung open, and the carpeted hallway was spread out in front of him like a browned tongue, welcoming him into the tastebuds of Satan himself.

Milford walked slowly, each footfall like a flying leap as he closed the distance between the door and the dining hall at the end, where he could already hear the faint sounds of a chair creaking across the floor, accompanied by a quiet rustling that could only be a hostage struggling against roped binds.

A moment - or, perhaps a century - passed, and then Milford entered the dining room. The lair of the beast.

Golden Freddy was standing very still at the end of the room, bloodstained knife against a small girl's - Rosie's - throat. Although he still paraded the mascot of Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria atop his head, Milford could tell that, underneath the golden fur and round, empty eyes, the killer was smiling.

"You're late for tea," he laughed, before slashing Rosie's throat hard and swift, like the striking of a cobra.

Milford bit down hard on his tongue, tasting silver, and mercury - and failure. In the corner of the room, Jenny, tied roughly down to one of his dining chairs, let out a muffled scream of despair from behind her gag.

Rosie's limp body fell to the floor, and Golden Freddy pushed it aside with one foot, dropping his knife to the ground to the clattering of metal, and the sickly splatter of blood. Milford instinctively advanced on the killer, but as quickly as they had disarmed themselves, they had re-armed, pulling a silenced Glock from behind their back and pointing it at straight at Milford's head.

"I'm curious," the killer announced loudly, pausing for expected effect as though it were a declaration of great importance. "How did you escape my Spring-trap?"

Milford let out a bedraggled breath. "I'm still working that out," he muttered, looking around the nightmare that he was currently drifting through with pained eyes. "Maybe I haven't. Maybe I'm still there."

Golden Freddy chuckled. "Oh, well. It hardly matters. I suppose you want to know how I reprogrammed Freddy? How I created the pinpoint cameras? How I-"

"No," Milford stated firmly. "I'm don't. I'm interested in one thing only. Seeing you die."

"Well, we both know that isn't going to happen," Golden Freddy retorted, jiggling the Glock as though Milford needed a reminder of its presence. "But, I do owe you one concession. No more masks. No more hiding."

Still pointing the Glock straight at Milford's frontal lobe, Golden Freddy - or the creature that inhabited his shell - tore off his head with one swift action, tossing it onto the ground.

Milford heard Jenny's soft gasp, but he barely even moved as the costume was violently shrugged off and discarded, piece-by-piece, and deposited in the corner of the room, next to Rosie's bloodied corpse.

"Not surprised?" Joe asked, feigning a disappointed snivel as the last of his facade was set aside. "Not even a little? Just for me?"

Milford had lost the feeling in most of his body, but he gave a little movement in his shoulders, intending to suggest a shrugging motion.

"It doesn't matter to me who it is under the suit," Milford said, calm as a blanket of snow, and just as icy. "It never did. Because it was never what was inside that mattered. It was Golden Freddy. You were never more than him. Never will be. It's the suit that I want to destroy - the thing inside is only a secondary casualty."

Joe sneered at his former friend's apparent disinterest in him. "You know what, Milford? You sound more loony than I am. Maybe YOU killed those children."

* * *

Andrew sat in silence in the Pizzeria.

He had been sat in silence for a long time. An hour. Perhaps two.

Milford had not called for him.

Slowly, he started to rock and forth on top of the crate, watched by the inactive animatronic legion stood about the room. If Andrew had been more perceptive, he may have not noticed the green mucus stains around some of the costumes - their eye sockets and mouths leaking from inside-out. Closer inspection would have also revealed a ghastly smell; rancid meat, mixed with the putrid odour of congealed blood.

But Andrew was not curious. He was distraught, and there were few things that would have distracted him from his self-absorption.

However, one of these things was sat beside him. And it started to show him things.

SAVE THEM.

Andrew clenched his eyes shut as the images started to come, barrelling into him at brute force, with no mercy.

Blood. Guts. Screams.

"No," Andrew wailed, now covering his ears to no avail.

The images and sounds were in his mind.

SAVE THEM.

"I don't know how!" Andrew whispered, fresh tears coursing down his cheeks.

YES, YOU DO.

And Andrew stopped crying. Because he did.

GIVE LIFE.

Andrew looked around at the animatronics. Freddy. Bonnie. Chica. Foxy.

And suddenly, he knew exactly what to do.

* * *

Milford stared blankly at Joe as he zipped up Rosie's body inside the Golden Freddy costume, her startled expression and bloodied face disappearing inside the body of the thing that had taken her life.

"All of the children are still in the Pizzeria," Joe mumbled as he worked. "I stuffed them inside the spare animatronic costumes. One for each character. My way of sticking the place the finger... It's not like I was ever going to evade capture, so why not have a little fun with it?"

Upon hearing no response from Milford, Joe continued to monologue, concealing his irritation at being ignored.

"You know, I wanted you to see me as I am, Milford," he said, smiling through gritted teeth. "Every day, I wanted you to see through my disguise... See me for what I really am, just like my wife did... The self-deprecating jokes, the appearance of internal struggle... That was my costume."

"Is this about your son?" Milford asked. It was the only part of Joe's ramblings he had any interest in hearing about.

Joe's eyes lit up, pleased that Milford was finally paying him some attention. "He was always his daddy's boy. Not any more, though. That bitch has taken him from me for good... But now I have the last laugh!"

"He must be so proud of you," Milford growled. "His daddy, an empty, vacuous killing machine."

"At least I don't hide myself away," Joe snapped, becoming angrier now. "Not like that bitch, draping herself in fur coats and crocodile-skin handbags to plug the holes in her persona. Not like you, letting your designs, your work, be subjugated by a thankless corporation, imprisoning you with menial work and menial wages."

Milford let the words bounce off of him, remaining silent and maintaining a deep stare. Joe seemed to squirm slightly under the gaze, for he suddenly put both hands on his Glock.

"I think that's enough talking now, though," he said. "I had been planning to kill you first, old pal, but then you punched me..."

Indicating his swollen lip, Joe continued. "It actually really fucking hurt, ya know that? So now, I'm not going to grant you any mercy. She goes first."

And just like that, Joe swivelled, and aimed at Jenny, tied down on the chair. And suddenly, Milford's will to live came back with a vengeance.

"Get away from her, you bastard!" he roared, taking a big step towards Joe. However, Joe turned and aimed at Milford once again, prompting him to stop in place.

"One more step and I'll put one through your leg," Joe hissed. "And then, I'll stick my thumb in the hole, like THIS!"

He mimed a horrible twisting motion with his finger. Milford did not move, but the adrenaline continued to flow from every pore in his body.

"Any last words, Jenny?" Joe asked, looking at his captive but gun still trained on Milford.

Jenny did not attempt to speak from inside her gag, her eyes fixed on Joe with an intense radiation of hatred.

"Very well. That's all folks!" Joe chortled, spinning around with finger poised on the trigger.

Time seemed to slow. Not entirely pause, but came to a crawl. And in that veritable frame of action, several things happened, in neat, chronological order, separated by mere seconds.

First, Milford threw the cast-iron candlestick which he had covertly tucked at one side as he got up to attack Joe. Then, the stick whizzed through the air, striking the killer straight across the side of his head. Following this, Joe's whole body shifted to lean on one side.

Finally, Joe squeezed the trigger, and the bullet left the Glock's chamber.

Then, time resumed.

Milford was beside Joe before the costumed killer could so much as scream out, unable to recover from the battering blow to his head before another, this time delivered via the medium of a bunched fist smashed into his nose. Then another, and another, until Joe, an unrecognisable streak of red, dropped onto his side, whining quietly in pain.

Milford hovered his foot over Joe's neck, invigorated by the power that holding a man's life in his hands granted him; imagining how Joe had felt when he had done the same to him, back in the pitch black of the saferoom.

"Eyes wide open, Milford!" Joe cried, trying hard to avoid a fearful appearance, but with a faltering conviction.

Satisfied at seeing his foe upon the ground, so utterly helpless, Milford placed the tip of his foot on Joe's windpipe, applying a light pressure.

His former friend and colleague stared at the limb in front of him with terrified eyes - those of a fattened pig in a slaughterhouse, moments before their throats are swiftly, yet humanely, cut. He didn't speak a word, completely incapable of making a sound other than a low-pitched gurgle, but Milford could see the pleading in his face.

He had never seen a man so terrified in his life.

"Oh, you wish I'd make it that easy," Milford whispered, as he moved his foot from Joe's neck.

The relief in the child killer's face was only temperary however, soon replaced by wide-eyed shock as the foot came down, instead, upon the side of his head, then concluded with nothing at all, as Joe slipped into a pained sleep.

Milford exhaled deeply, examining the Golden Freddy killer as he lay on the ground in front of him. Vulnerable. For a moment, he wondered if he made a mistake in letting him live, but then he looked over at Jenny, seeing the relief and the affection in her eyes, and he knew he had made the right choice.

After dialling 911, Milford went over to Jenny, slashing her binds with a knife from the kitchen and pulling out her gag. The second she was free, Jenny leapt out of the chair, throwing her arms around Milford in a hug that was practically suffocating.

"Oh god," she sobbed. "Thank god you're alright!"

Milford let out a little chuckle, which took on a whole life of its own to the point where he simply couldn't stop laughing. Each sharp intake and outtake of air was like an adrenaline spike, and soon Milford felt lighter than air.

"I'm okay," Milford whispered, somewhat incredulously. "What about you?"

Through tears and involuntary shaking, Milford felt Jenny nod her head up and down.

"There's something I wanted to ask you," Milford said quietly, prompting Jenny to pull away. "Now's as good a time as any."

The expression on Jenny's face was priceless. A look of bewilderment and quiet excitement that couldn't quite be matched by anything in the world.

"Jenny..." Milford began, pausing as he realised he didn't quite know how to finish his sentence.

"Do you like Indian food?"

Jenny's Scream-like gasp transformed mid-sentence into a grin the diameter of the Mid-Atlantic gap. She playfully slapped Milford's arm as he took out the glistening gold ring that he had been carrying around for the last three days, fitting it on her finger.

"I love you, Milford," Jenny whispered, her voice muffled, but by emotion this time, rather than a black rag.

"I love you too, Jen."

The lightbulb clicked on Milford's head, and he suddenly pulled away.

"Sorry babe, I'll be back. There's still something I need to do."

* * *

The first light of dawn was streaming inside the Pizzeria in small, piercing shafts when Milford arrived in the parking lot. Upon his lofty sign, Freddy gazed down at him with his big, dopey eyes and Kermit the Frog-smile.

"Is it just me, or does he look happier than usual?" Milford thought, dismissing the concept with a knowing smirk, and pushing open the unlocked front doors.

Andrew practically frog-jumped up from the table he was sitting at when Milford walked in. His eyes swam with mercurial joy, and Milford felt his soul physically peel at the sight of it.

"Is it over, Mifford?" he asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it spoken nonetheless.

"The Purple Guy is in custody," Milford smiled. "It's over."

Andrew grinned so hard Milford was sure his face would break. He knew he had to tell Andrew what must happen next, but the thought of doing so left him bloated with a cold dread.

"Andrew," he started, but the ex-janitor cut him off.

"I know," he smiled. "It's time for me to go back now. I ready called the cops. I always known it was gonna happen - I'm just glad it got to happen now, with you here."

Milford felt like a bundle of fluttery butterfly's had been released into his insides. "As an escapee, you'll be treated very harshly. Visitation is... unlikely. I'm... I'm sorry, Andrew."

"Dun't be," Andrew said. "I had a blast seeing you again, Mifford. And this time its different, too."

Milford frowned. "Different? How so?"

"This time I get to say gudbye."

Milford felt a rush of affection for the spindly man, and he put his arms around him tightly. Andrew was initially surprised by the motion, but soon relaxed into it, his own arms gently coming up behind Milford.

"You're one of the best men I ever met, Andrew," Milford whispered. "You're going to be fine. I promise."

Andrew tensed in his arms, seemingly stunned by the words. "And you's my best friend, Milford."

Milford drew back, incredulous. "You... You called me Milford, Andy."

Andrew chuckled. "Isn't that your name, Mifford?"

Milford laughed. And laughed. And kept laughing. He felt like a pufferfish expelling the points on its body one-by-one.

"I'll see ya before you know it," he assured Andrew, who nodded.

In the distance, the sound of police sirens was becoming more audible. As the headlights swept around the corner, Milford sat with Andrew at the table, looking about each other one last time at the Pizzeria where they had both once worked. Both where they met, and where they parted.

Such is the humour of coincidence.

* * *

Joe sat on the little black stool facing the glass pane, picked up the phone receiver on the desk, and gazed out at his visitor. On the other side of the barrier, his visitor did the same.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," Joe said.

The voice on the other end of the line was silkier than a pillow at the Ritz, but seemed deeper somehow, as though taking on a new darkness. "I've been pre-occupied cleaning up your mess. And what a mess it was."

Joe's stony face clouded. "Hey, I did everything I was told!"

"Up to a point," the visitor retorted. "But you failed at the last hurdle, as we knew you would. The ritual of the fifth child was completed outside of the Pizzeria. And now, the whole thing has come crashing down."

Joe did not reply. He could feel his fist curling and had to force his body to relax.

"We're in the process of finding a replacement candidate, but it may prove difficult. The site is now under strict investigation. There is a lot of talk about shutting it down."

"Not my concern," Joe growled. "Not any more."

The voice in the receiver cackled with laughter. "I'm afraid its not that simple, Joe. Once you fall in, you can never just fall out."

"Well, what am I supposed to do?" Joe replied angrily. "I'm serving five life sentences here! I'm lucky I can even get a visitor, if 'lucky' is the right word to describe seeing you again..."

The voice was not affected by Joe's disdain. "We'll be in touch, periodically. But we are grappling with a more important problem now."

"Oh?"

"We are foiled by another. A powerful being. A nightmare made flesh."

Joe snorted. "Oh, good."

"We'll work it out. But until then, this is goodbye, Joe."

The line went quiet, and the figure on the other side of the glass stood up, tucked in their chair, and walked away.

"What an ass," Joe thought, as his cuffs were put on and he was led back to his cell.

* * *

The darkened pizzeria, previously a vapid vacuum of sound, was suddenly alive with noise. The dull, groaning thrash of metal as four animatronic endoskeletons rose from the floor, straightening their backs to a rigid stance.

Next to them, hovering several feet off the ground, was Andrew's puppet. Well, not Andrew's...

Not anymore, if ever at all.

The puppet raised its arms, outstretched wooden fingers seemingly clawing at the air. The animatronics followed the movement of the puppet with their steely gazes.

LIFE.

The puppet unleashed a flurry of images. Children playing, laughing, crying.

Good times, bad times. The time of their lives.

NEW LIFE.

The puppet threw down its hands very suddenly.

ETERNAL LIFE.

And at the signal of their saviour, each of the four animatronics reached down to their feet, and picked up the costume head that lay there. That Andrew had placed so carefully.

Freddy. Bonnie. Chica. And Foxy.

And then, the Freddy animatronic laughed. A deep, resonating yet cheerful laugh.

Life had found a way. Such is the humour of fate.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

* * *

**A/N: Age of the Bear shall return in November. In the meantime, I am releasing a five-part Animal Crossing/Silent Hill x-over starting in October. If you're a fan of either of those properties, I hope you'll check it out! Anyway, stay tuned for more, Fazfans! The next arc has a strong focus on the animatronics, and finally brings the story into game territory. Get hype!**

**Soufflé.**


	13. Limoncello (1985-7)

**Chapter Eleven: Limoncello (1985/7)**

Every paper ran the same story that morning, each with similarly-catchy and exciting headline captions accompanying them.

In the Local Lad, it was 'PIZZA TERROR PUT TO REST.' In News Nation it read 'FAZBEAR'S FRIGHT: CHILD MURDERED CAPTURED.'

Even the more satirical side of the media was chipping in, with the Blues from News running the headline 'WOULD YOU LIKE EXTRA STAB WITH THAT?', accompanied by a caricature of an overweight Fazbear employee leaning over a child dressed as the titular character, with a Cheshire grin stretched well beyond sensible proportions.

Murder (and especially serial killing) was not a clean subject for national news, but most outlets had suitably dirty hands already. It was just another story - hot for a few days (maybe even a week if British politicians decided to take their job seriously for a bit) but sizzling out before long.

Or, at least it was to most.

For Fazbear Entertainment, and its proprietor Henry Fazwick, it was a giant headache - truly a migraine of publicity-destroying proportion - and it was not going away anytime soon. The custom, on the other hand, vanished like a rabbit in a top hat at the blink of an eye. Soon, frantic and panicked meetings were called. A multi-million dollar franchise was about to fall to ashes - there wasn't a dry brow in the house.

Henry Fazwick was, predictably, the most stirred of the lot. He'd been sitting on a veritable throne of profits with the Faz franchise, but now, like the cold stone walls and floors of the safe room, their beloved mascot was drenched in blood that would never fully wash out.

"We have to downsize," he insisted, pausing only briefly to speak before return to pacing the boardroom. "Rebuild. Rebrand. Reinvent."

"Tear down the whole legacy?" a flustered suit asked. "Is that wise?"

Fazwick rounded on him. "We're sitting on broken foundations, Phil! If we don't cut out the rot, the whole thing will collapse! The Fazbear name is mud - it's just baggage now, and if we don't leave it behind, we'll never be able to move forward."

"Henry, we won't be able to just sweep all of this under the rug."

Fazwick looked around, identifying the skeptical voice coming from the opposite end of the ebony desk. The balding board member to which it belonged sat forward as he became the centre of attention in the room.

"People aren't stupid. Some lucky snot-nosed journo's going to catch wind and then we'll be back at square one."

Fazwick, listening to the man with only one ear open, twitched at the tones of his words. Face reddening, he opened his mouth to slay the dissenter, but was cut off immediately by another.

"He's right you know."

Every suit in the room turned their chairs, startled at the voice which had dared to interrupt their boss. It belonged to a man in a deep, dark red suit and black tie, who had arrived moments ago and now stood in the open doorway of the room, casting a long, slanted shadow across the carpet.

He walked briskly across the room, manicured hands free of any suitcase or paperwork which would signify his membership of the board. Each stride was a heavy, sonorous thud as his shiny-black boots struck the floor, each movement a powerful, confident and controlled one.

The man was not a part of the company, but he might as well have owned it.

Finally, Fazwick broke the silence with a confused, and clearly-agitated "Who are you?"

The man smiled with both his teeth and his eyes, glimmering like the models from the old adverts who looked like they'd been handcrafted by God and sent down to Earth to teach us meaning of charisma. His hands, fingers stretched apart, clamped together as he stepped forward to stand beside Fazwick, beaming all-the-while.

At last, he spoke again. "My name is Mark Marvell, and I'm here today to save your company."

(-)

\- Two Years Later -

Milford Barnes sat at his desk, a steaming mug of coffee gently sifting away at one side, and a congregation of assorted ballpoint pens across the other.

As he sat, nearly-motionless, humming a song that had lodged itself in his earhole on the drive in that morning, he found his gaze drifting towards the door of the office.

His door. His office.

He read the words which were emblazoned upon it. Backwards though they may be from his perspective, he had read those words so many times it was simply a matter of stimulating his memory.

**Milford Barnes - Correspondent**

Correspondent was a big word. A word with weight; ramifications. When he had first seen it in that fateful ad nearly two years prior he had found instant gratification from the way it sounded. Simply whispering it to himself whilst lying awake late at night filled him with a sense of self-importance.

Not that he'd done anything of importance in his two years in the job. Forever on the cusp of his killer story, drifting between wars and bombings and breakthrough dog hair therapies, he found himself stuck in his office on most days, sitting idly amongst stacks of disordered paperwork. Balls of screwed up paper with scribbled titles like 'Why Your Boss is Screwing You Over' and 'The Meaning Behind the Poodle Wax' were accumulated around the bottom (and outsides) of his bin.

It was a still life. Perhaps a little too still.

The door opened, bringing Milford out of his trance. The balding head of Max Fairbank popped through like a little gopher.

"Milford, can we speak in my office please?" he asked, but with a tone that told Milford he had very little say in the matter.

Milford nodded a bit too keenly, standing up quickly and following Fairbank into the crimson-carpeted corridor.

The pair walked to Fairbank's office, Milford nearly tripping up on a poorly-placed bonsai tree. Just as he reached the door, hand hesitating in front of the knob, Fairbank stopped to look at Milford.

"Were you the first one in the toilets this morning?" he asked suddenly, brow slightly creased.

Milford frowned. "No, I... I don't think so."

Fairbank looked at him for a few more seconds, before whatever thought he had been having drifted and he shook it away with the palm of his hand.

"Never mind. Let's go inside."

Milford, relieved to have moved quickly on from the strange conversation interval, nodded, and the two entered the office.

It was not a particularly or spacious large room, but it still held its own thanks to dozens of framed newspaper clippings and a giant shaggy moose head that overlooked the room like one of Big Brother's telescreens.

"Sit," Fairbank said, gesturing to a slightly-too tall chair that was positioned on the opposite side of the desk from which the moose was placed.

"Thanks," Milford said, flopping down on the chair and slipping down into its leathery sinkhole.

Fairbank sat opposite, taking the time to adjust the papers on his desk before his eyes settled on Milford, and he again moved to speak.

"I have an opportunity for you, Barnes. The story of your career. Are you interested?"

Milford's face immediately rose by several shades. He leant forward instinctively, hands pressed hard onto the surface of the table.

"I'm listening," Milford replied, smiling.

It was perhaps the understatement of the year.

But then the look on Fairbank's face changed, and what he said next was enough to wipe the smile off Milford's face and into oblivion.

"Barnes, they're re-opening that Fazbear place. Y'know, where you used to work; where those kids got killed. Under new management, so I hear. Updated all of those old robots. Cost millions, or so I hear. I think there's a great story here. Maybe you can help be responsible for bringing another scandal their way."

Milford's expelling breath caught in his throat. Before his eyes, the demonic smile of Freddy Fazbear - the fuel of his nightmares - flashed big and white like a firecracker.

Being crammed inside that springlock suit, with his arms pinned to his side, blood slowly trickling down his brow from the cut in his forehead.

Hearing those little kids scream when Joe had stabbed them, a crooked smile slowly spreading across Golden Freddy's bloated lips like every drop of blood brought him closer and closer to a life of his own.

Milford must have pulled the distraught expression of a millennia, because when the mist finally parted inside of his head, Fairbank was actually shaking his shoulder, repeating his name with a slowly-increasing crescendo of worry.

"Here, I'm here," Milford stammered groggily.

Even as he said it, he wasn't entirely certain that it was true.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bring any bad memories back," Fairbank said, clearly more quiet now, and perhaps slightly guilty. "I know that place must be the source of all your bad dreams, which us why I thought you'd be perfect for this assignment. Y'know, so you can give it to the place, take em' down once and for all. Help ya sleep again. What do you think?"

Milford was quick, foregoing the manners to even pretend he was giving it any thought.

"No."

He stood up almost immediately afterward, making a beeline for the door.

But he never made it. Fairbank spoke up again, and his words stopped Milford in his tracks.

"I'm sorry, Barnes. But if you don't accept this assignment, then I'm going to have to let you go."

Milford rotated his head slowly to look at Fairbank, barely moving his rigid torso at all. Incredulous flames had lit up and started to burn inside of him, whilst something deeper and more primal lay just under the surface, like magma primed to burst from the earth.

"What?" To his own surprise, it was all he could muster.

Fairbank sighed a vacuous, corporate sigh."It gives me no pleasure to tell you this, Barnes, but we're not satisfied with your career trajectory. You've had an unremarkable record - we don't like unremarkable. We try not to hire it, least of all keep it on our payroll."

Milford looked down at his quivering hands.

How could this be happening to him?

Why?

"I saw the potential in you as a great correspondent," Fairbank continued, voice all but an air raid siren to Milford's ears. "I still do. But you have to seize it. Go home. I'll give you twenty-four hours to consider. If you decide not to pursue it, I expect your resume on my desk tomorrow morning."

With the last of its bombs depleted, the Fairbank-shaped fighter plane flew from the room.

Following his departure, it was a good few seconds before Milford could find the feeling in his body again. When he did, it came in the form of his bottom hitting the carpet as his legs buckled.

As he sat, legs sprawled out in front of him, Milford thought back to his time at Freddy Fazbear's.

Of the pizza. Of the animatronics.

And of blood.

And then, he called Wendy to come take him home.

(-)

Across town, a much different office encounter was about to begin.

"Kinda creepy looking, aren't they?"

The nineteen year old smiled a goofy, buck-toothed grin as he pointed at the poster adorning the wall.

"You know they say the old ones attacked people, right?"

The twenty year-old who sat to the right of the nineteen year-old tried hard to ignore his neighbour. Instead, he studied the meticulously-compiled, stapled and coffee-stained interview notes sat on his lap. They covered everything from creating good first impressions to avoiding terrible working hours. Of course, a brief history of the franchise was a must, although the omission of the parts where a man had been hospitalised by an animatronic, and a golden-suited maniac had slaughtered five kids had seemed like a wise choice.

They weren't great conversation starters for a potential employee, after all.

After what seemed like an eternity, and following several more outbursts from the nineteen year-old, the door across the hall was opened, and finally, his name was called.

"Jeremy Fitzgerald?"

Jeremy stood up, brushed his hands over the creases at the top of his trousers, and walked over to the open door.

He was greeted by a man in his early thirties who introduced himself as Greg.

"I'm the regional manager for Freddy Fazbear's," he explained. "Please, take a seat."

The inside of the office was a man-child's paradise. Purple and red streaks and swirls that didn't so much demand attention as catch it in a net decorated the walls. At least two gumball machines lined the wall, along with a MSX console and a small TV screen. The desk where Jeremy sat across from Greg was covered in orange crisp crumbs and smelt like plasticised cheese. It was all Jeremy could do not to gag.

"Well, welcome to the new and improved Freddy Fazbear's, a fun place for kids and adults. First thing's first, I am obligated to wave any rumours that are circulating about the company. Fazbear Entertainment does not endorse demonic possession, worship or rituals. We also have no ties to the illuminati. I hope that clears up any doubts. Do you have any questions before we begin?"

Jeremy smiled nervously as he sat in his chair. "No, I don't think so."

"Good," Greg said, plonking himself down opposite Jeremy. He sounded tired, which, considering the amount of sweat and blood every single Fazbear employee had shes trying to turn back time, was not surprising. "First, lets start with your CV, right here. It says you left school at 16 to pursue a life ambition. How did that turn out for you?"

'How do you think?' Jeremy thought loudly, watching as the frantic movement of Greg's squeaky stool shook one of the gum balls in his machines loose. Instead of speaking his thoughts however, he picked out one of his three hand-selected responses. "I gave it my best shot but I eventually decided it wasn't for me."

"Interesting," Greg remarked, himself sounding anything but engaged. "And after that you spent a year making... vacuum cleaners?"

"An assembly line in a small town a couple of miles away," Jeremy recalled. "We made hairdryers too."

"So what makes you think you have what it takes to be a part of the new face of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza?" Greg asked. From the tone of his voice, this would be the closer.

Jeremy took a short pause before replying as enthusiastically as he could.

"I've lived around young children in the past so I know how to react to them. I don't drink or smoke, or have a criminal record. Oh, and I like animals."

Greg looked up from his notes. For the first time in their conversation, he actually seemed pleased, with the ghost of a smile raising at the corners of mouth.

"We'll be in touch within a couple of days, Mr. Fitzgerald. Thanks."

Jeremy stood up and walked out of Greg's office. There was a spring in his step that not even the sight of the irritating nineteen year-old outside could dissuade.

In fact, he barely stopped skipping until he got out to his car.

But he did stop. And he looked around.

Freddy Fazbear looked back at him from his lofty perch upon the pizzeria sign. His eyes, wide, white and ever-gleeful, seemed to beckon to him. If its mouth could move, Jeremy was pretty certain he knew what he would hear.

"Welcome to the family."

(-)

"And if Orpheus ever looked back on his way through hell, he would lose the love of his life and everything he held dear. This time, for good."

Milford sat quietly on a loose public bus seat, travelling home through the suburbs. Next to him, a mother was reading to her young son from a book entitled 'Children's Greek Myths.'

He had not caught the bus in four years since Wendy had started working from home, but today she had told him that he would have to get the bus.

She was busy, so it seemed. Stressed perhaps.

What he was about to tell her would make it a lot worse.

He wouldn't pretend he hadn't given it sone thought. A part of him was really appealed by the notion of finally getting some closure on the characters and memories of the place that so haunted him.

Joe had been caught. He was behind bars, likely for all of time. Justice had been served.

'So why does it feel like an open case?' Milford thought. 'Because those children he killed will never find peace? Who really believes in that stuff anyway?'

What Joe had done had been horrific, nightmarish and terrifying, but it was still the acts of a human being. There was nothing unexplained about any of it; nothing extraordinary or, whisper it, supernatural.

'And yet, there's something more. There always is.'

Perhaps he owed those kids. He had been working alongside Joe - no, they had even been friends - for the whole time he gad been killing, never suspecting a thing.

'Could I have saved them?' Milford whispered under his breath. For the first time in quite a while, his thoughts turned to Andrew.

Does he feel the same way, wherever he is?

Maybe he had an obligation to those kids. Maybe he didn't.

But they would never leave his thoughts until he turned around and faced them.

(-)

Jeremy was sitting on his couch at home when he got the call.

"You've got the job, Mr. Fitzgerald. Can you start tonight? On graveyard shift."

Jeremy's heart sank slightly at that last remark as he lay the phone back upon its stand.

The 12-6am shift? Wasn't that the one where all the bad stuff happened?

"History doesn't repeat itself," Jeremy assured himself, as he lay back on his sofa and flicked on the TV.

"What are the odds of that?"

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	14. Espresso (1987)

**Chapter Twelve: Espresso (1987)**

"You'll need a hell of a lot of coffee."

The narrow-eyed man who had introduced himself as Fritz Smith chuckled to himself following this remark, as though a hot injection of several shots of espresso was an amusing image.

"Try and bring a magazine or something, too. A porno, maybe. If that's your kind of thing..."

The pizzeria was empty - quieter than a funeral and more foreboding than an exorcism. It had been this way much of the day, save for a few ignorant elders and teens who wanted to come and gawp at the "murder house."

Jeremy had arrived early so that Fritz could give him a rundown of everything that he would need to know for his first graveyard shift.

"Just in case you forget anything, I also left you a message on the phone," Fritz explained. "There's only a few things I should tell you about... But they are important."

Jeremy's attention started to diverge as he noticed the array of animatronics that were currently on the stage.

He had heard them referred to as toys, and certainly, they had a look of plastic about their shiny, polished faces and beady white eyes. But he was sure that he'd rather play with a roll of barbed wire than one of these mechanical menaces.

Bonnie, with her gaping maw of a smile and energetic "I drink three cappuccinos a day" stare, was perhaps the scariest of all. That said, Chica's gormless expression seemed to have evolved very little from the pictures Jeremy had seen of the original.

For a chicken, she sure looked like she wanted to gnaw off your head.

"...and so that's why you'll want to avoid using the toilets between 2-3 am," Fritz finished, packing the last of his belongings away and throwing on a coat. "Well, you got any questions?"

Jeremy snapped back to reality, smiling tiredly at Fritz.

"No, thanks."

Fritz patted him gently on the shoulder. "Well, like I said... you need anything, check the message."

And then he was gone, leaving Jeremy and the deathtraps together.

Alone.

Jeremy looked at the clock on the wall.

11:34.

There was definitely time for a coffee. Maybe two.

(-)

Across town, at the very same time, Milford tentatively pushed open the bathroom door, where Jenny was stood in front of the mirror, contortions of anger and fear still evident in her face.

"Jen? Can we please talk?"

Jenny's eyes dropped like metal shutters, a deep hybrid of sob and sigh escaping her lips.

"I don't think I have anything more to say about this, Milford."

Milford's shoulders sagged as he approached, not out of frustration, but out of sheer exhaustion of will.

"This isn't just about me, Jenny. It's for you, too. While that place is still open, the things that Joe did to those kids, and to you, can't be put to rest."

Jenny turned to face Milford, dark clouds eclipsing any sign of warmth in her features.

"It's over, Milford. That fucker's been buried so deep he'll never see the light again. Justice has been served."

"Do you really believe that?" Milford challenged.

Jenny withdrew slightly. It was evident that she did not.

"I.. I just don't want you to go anywhere near that place. It's cursed. First there was that incident with Andrew and the robber... And then... Well..."

"I'm not getting myself into any danger," Milford insisted. "I'm there to get a scoop - to shut it down!"

"There are other stories, Milford! Stories that won't get you killed!"

"But none of them will stop me from losing my job!" Milford shouted. The very instant he spoke, he regretted it.

Jenny's eyebrows shot up, then softened slowly - like a feather caught in the wind then gently floating back down.

"Is that what this is about? They're blackmailing you into this, Milford! Nothing is worth this!"

"I really, really like this job," Milford whispered. "But sitting on my laurels just work anymore, babe. Every journalist has their big story - this could be mine."

Jenny kept silent this time. Milford had played a winning hand and he knew it.

"Just trust in me, Jen," he whispered. "Nothing is gonna happen to me, or to you. To anyone. It'll be over before you know it."

_'Wow'_ Milford thought._ 'I sounded so good I've nearly convinced myself.'_

(-)

4:20 A.M.

With the everlasting darkness, and the slow, steady drip of water from a leaky faucet down the hall as his backdrops, Jeremy decided now was as good a time as ever.

Opening his rucksack, he took out the little camcorder and tripod he had brought with him and set them up across his office. A fan blew on the desk behind him, giving the back folds of his shirt a well-needed blast of soothing cold air every couple of seconds.

When it was finally ready, Jeremy hit the [REC] button and sat hurriedly back in his chair, trying hard not to be distracted by the Freddy Fazbear costume head that he swiped onto the floor as he did so.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," he began, the echo of his voice sounding like a boom of thunder in the empty, hollow structure.

"Tonight, I begin my expose on the inner workings of America's most terrifying restaraunt: Freddy Fazbear's. As I speak, I am working night guard duty in the very same pizzeria where five young children were stolen away and murdered by Joe (-)."

From somewhere in the bowels of the restaurant, there was deep rumble. Jeremy swallowed hard, but was not deterred.

_'It must be pipes. It's always pipes.'_

"Fazbear Entertainment recently relaunched with a new group of investors, and millions of pounds of innovative upgrades, including new animatronics."

At this point, Jeremy turned the camera towards the mangled collection of machine parts that he had collected from the showfloor stage and brought back for evidence.

While it was in pieces, Toy Foxy certainly seemed like the least threatening of the new line.

"They wish to profit out of nightmares; build a new mountain of cash atop a foundation of blood and bone. And I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen."

Jeremy swallowed hard. This was the part he had been dreading, but the most important part of all.

"My name is Jeremy Fitzgerald. Two years ago, my little brother Billy was kidnapped and slaughtered by an employee from this pizzeria. And, I fear, he will never find peace whilst this place still stands."

Tears filled Jeremy's eyes as he turned off the camera and sat back in his chair.

Being a hero wasn't easy. Wasn't that what Billy had always told him, when they had played together with his G.I. Joe?

Jeremy froze, every part of him but the hot trickle of tears on his cheeks coming to a still.

From somewhere in the bowels of the restaurant, there was a sound - a sound that froze the bile in his stomach and softened his breathing to a fluttering whisper.

Music. Children's music. Like something out of a music box.

It was quiet; barely audible if not for the deathly silence in the building, and yet it burned holes in Jeremy's ears with its eerie, fantastical sounds.

_'March of the Toreadors?'_ Jeremy thought. _'Is that the name of the song?'_

Before he could come up with a conclusive answer, the distant song suddenly cut out, followed shortly by a loud crash from a room which Jeremy seemed to recall being labelled as 'storage.'

"Just some boxes falling over," Jeremy whispered, but without any conviction whatsoever.

Boxes don't just suddenly fall like that. They have to be pushed.

Then, he heard a noise at the end of the hallway leading to the security office. This one sounded more like a clang of metal, although Jeremy was not paying enough attention to be certain. He had already taken out the security tablet that Smith had provided him with and flicked it on.

The crackly camera feed burst into life just in time for Jeremy to see the very last revulsion of a door that had clearly been opened and left to swing.

Room 14. So, it had been storage then. Although by now such revelations were completely irrelevant.

Whatever was causing the noise was right outside the doorway.

"I have a gun!" Jeremy announced loudly, foregoing the horror movie trope of asking 'Is someone there?', the answer to which was already apparent enough.

_'Oh god, why didn't I bring a gun?'_

There was no reply, but Jeremy could feel the presence beyond the doorway. It was large, and eerily-calm, although there was a deepening anger there; a tension that caused the very air to shimmer as though ready to ignite at any moment.

"What could you possibly want with this dump?" Jeremy cried, sounding more pitiful this time. "There's no money here, and there never will be. All those murders saw to that."

If the intent had been to scare away the assailant, it had failed, for they had not so much as moved an inch in the time so far. Only, now it seemed as though they may not be alone, as the sounds of heavy footfalls echoed in an adjacent corridor.

"I'm just the night guard," Jeremy muttered feebly. "If you got a problem with Fazbear, you'll find him a couple of doors down. Do whatever you want."

The second set of feet stopped just short of the first, and again, there was quiet.

Jeremy was about to reach for the phone on his desk, for whatever good that may do, when he was cut off by one of the most horrendous sounds he had ever heard in his life.

A laugh.

But not just any laugh. The joyful, bombastic laughter of one Freddy Fazbear.

It was right outside the doorway, as loud as though the two of them were face-to-face. That odious laughter that had filled Jeremy with such rage up to this day - that hateful symbol of Fazbear Entertainment - now struck him only with a fierce, icy terror.

In the ensuing panic that gripped him, Jeremy found his hands on a discarded mask he found upon the floor, thrusting it upon his head in a desperate and irrational attempt to protect his sight from the terror that was right upon him. He heard nothing inside the head but the jittery croaks of his own breath, a darkness unlike any other closing in around him, ready to crush him into pulp.

He opened his eyes eventually, cold sweat dripping across his brow like a sticky waterfall.

And when he did, he saw another pair of eyes staring straight back.

(-)

Milford arrived in the parking lot beside Fazbear's at 10:30 A.M the next day. He was wearing his long brown trench-coat, an accessory which he believed suited the part he was trying to play.

Like a proto-Fox Mulder, he stood with his hands in his pockets and looked up at the laughing Freddy upon the top of the restaurant sign, once again picturing the terror which had gone down under his roof.

"This is for you, Jenny," he whispered. "For a sweeter night's sleep."

With such encouragement, he crossed the lot towards the door. Just as he was about to reach out for the handle, the door was flung open from the other side, and a man burst out of the restaurant, face white like a clump of chalk.

He barely even cast a look at Milford, so intent on crossing the lot and getting away from the Pizzeria as he clearly was.

A lightbulb flickered in Milford's head. His newfound instincts of journalism told him that this man would be a pertinent place to begin his investigation. Something about the man struck Milford, aside from the curtail of his coat as he propelled past.

Perhaps it was an empathy - a telepathic link - between former and current Fazbear employees. Or maybe it was the expression on the man's face, which could only have been either 'I've encountered something inexplicable' and evil or 'I've just had to clean out customer toilets.'

This was his man. His top interviewee. He was certain of it.

"Hey, wait!" Milford called, already moving after the man who had flung open his car door and was looking for all the world as though he wanted to floor it all the way home. At the sound of Milford's call, he turned around, confusion now scrambling with the anxiety on his face.

"Who the hell are you?" he shouted.

"I just want to talk," Milford replied, jogging briskly over before the man could hightail it. "You're an employee here, right?"

The man snorted. "Was. They couldn't get me back there if they paid me double."

"What happened?" Milford asked.

As though smelling an fierce odor in the air, the man suddenly drew back.

"I don't know you. Just leave me alone!"

Milford caught his arm, stopping the man and causing him to twist around again in alarm.

"Listen," Milford said, as calmly as he could. "You've seen something. Something you can't explain. And it all leads back here. Am I right?"

The man opened his mouth to protest, but found nothing but a bitter acid taste in his mouth. There were no protestations to come.

"I've been there, buddy. I was in the same position as you just two years back. When it comes to fucked-up pizzeria stories, I don't just own the t-shirt, I designed it. Let me help you. No, let's help each other."

Milford let go of the man's arm and it hung loosely at his side. He didn't try to get away again, simply nodding quietly, heaving a deep sigh.

Nodding back, Milford gestured to the coffee bar across the road. "Come on. Tell me all about it."

(-)

The other members had already gathered when Fritz walked in.

It was not a particularly-formal event. The time for formality had come and gone, and they had no need for it now. Not when they were on the victory lap.

Taking his customary seat next to Viola and Douglas, Fritz rolled up his sleeves and waited for the boss to begin his speech.

He was not left waiting long.

Mark Marvell walked into the office in one of his finest dark red suits, big grin glimmering bright white as per usual.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming," he called. "Things have proceeded very nicely, and so this might very well be the last time we need convene before... well, before our whole world changes."

The walking charisma-fountain took his seat at the head of the table, hands folded together and laid to rest casually on the glass table.

"As you all know, we have been pursuing the Fazbear site for over three years now. It is the perfect place to conduct the ritual. Two years ago, we acted through an outside party, but today we stand at the top of the mountain, as conquerors. We don't just own a single servant; now, we own the castle!"

Nods of approval from the many wealthy aristocrats at the table told Mark what he needed to know. That his leadership and his decisions continued to be unchallenged and respected.

"We will wait no longer. This Friday we will beckon our lord, Maghuul, and rule alongside him, as lords. And ladies, of course."

Chuckles rippled through the room. Even Fritz, a modest and ordinary sort of chap, was tickled enough to laugh heartily.

Mark joined in the laughter as it slowly died down. Wiping his face with a handkerchief from his pocket, he continued.

"As you all know, Fazbear's is host to dark forces, resulting from the actions of a janitor some four years ago. This makes it a perfect channel for our ritual, but also a dangerous proposition, should anything go wrong. The support of each and every one of you - the sacrifices you have made - will be recognised. Your hard work will earn you a seat in the palace of our lord!"

A roar of approval now. Mark beamed.

"Freddy Fazbear has reigned as king of that pizzeria for too long now. It is time to welcome true royal blood to the fold. Time... to give birth to a dynasty."

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


End file.
